I  "ETUHN  TO        1 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


'•Ma'»  Crandell 


J 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS 


THE    OUOK    TO    IU:MJKV'S    COT. 


WliNDOW   IN   THRUMS 


BY 


J.    M.   BARRIE 


author  of 
"when  a  man  's  single,"  "little  minister,"  etc. 


IWLM)  illustrations  bg 
CLIFTON    JOHNSON 


NEW    YORK 

DODD,  MEAD   AND   COMPANY 

1896 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company. 


Sanibtrsttg  ^rrss : 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


PR   / 
4074 

89^ 


INTRODUCTION. 


"  Thrums  "  is  the  name  which  Mr.  Barrie  has 
given  to  the  town  of  Kirriemuir  in  Forfarshire, 
situated  sixty-two  miles  north  of  Edinburgh.  To 
American  eyes  the  surrounding  country  looks 
rather  bare  and  windswept,  yet  it  is  a  land  of 
pleasant  sweeping  hills  and  valleys  with  the  out- 
U'ing  ridges  of  the  Grampians  looming  up  along 
the  northern  horizon  and  stretching  away  to  the 
west. 

In  a  hollow  by  a  little  stream  that  winds  through 
the  village  arc  two  great  stone  mills,  which  furnish 
cmplo}'mcnt  for  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
town.  The  weaving  now  monopolized  b\'  the 
mills  was  once  done  in  the  homes,  and  one  may 
still  find  houses  whence  tiie  clack  of  the  loom 
comes  to  the  cars  of  the  passer-by.  Fifty  years 
ag(j  the  rattle  of  tlic  hand-loom  would  have  been 
heard  in  every  cottage. 

V 


1496200 


INTRODUCTION. 

Most  of  the  village  houses  are  built  of  red  sand- 
stone, for  the  most  part  weather-darkened  and 
battered,  but  some  of  the  older  dwellings  arc 
white-washed.  From  the  little  square  which  is  the 
town  centre,  the  houses  wind  away  along  the  val- 
leys and  up  the  hillsides  in  the  most  charming 
fashion.  I  suppose  this  is  because  the  village  site 
itself  is  so  uncertain  and  hammock}'.  Whichever 
way  you  take,  you  cither  go  up-hill  or  down-hill, 
and  the  hill  is  likely  to  be  steep.  The  streets  are 
crooked  with  unexpected  turns  and  little  lanes, 
that  have  an  odd  way  of  jerking  around  corners 
and  dodging  under  houses. 

By  taking  the  road  southward  from  the  town 
square,  ascending  a  short  hill  and  crossing  a  heavy 
arched  stone  bridge,  you  at  once  commence  to 
climb  the  stiff  ascent  of  Mr.  Barrie's  famous 
"  brae."  Coming  to  the  elbow  of  the  brae,  you 
will  see  before  you  Hendry's  cot  at  the  top  of  the 
hill.  It  is  much  like  Mr.  Barrie's  description, — 
a  one-story  house  with  white-washed  walls  and  a 
tiny  window  in  the  gable,  that  you  feel  sure  must 
be  Jess's  window  the  moment  it  comes  into  view. 
This  window  looks  easterly  down  the  brae  and 
over  the  town,  and   it   is  remarkable   how  as   one 

vi 


INTRODUCTION. 

wanders  about  the  \illaf;[c  and  over  the  surround- 
ing hillslopes,  the  cot  at  the  top  of  the  brae  comes 
into  \ic\v,  and  how  the  httle  window  preternatur- 
all}'  follows  your  movements  like  an  ever-watchful 
eye. 


.   yfS«9' 


A    PASSER    ON    THK    BRAE. 


In  front  of  the  cottage  is  a  garden  which  is 
separated  from  the  street  by  a  rough  stone  wall. 
The  cottage  roof  in  Mr.  Barrie's  description,  is  of 
thatch  with  ropes  flung  over  it  to  protect  it  from 
the  wind,  but  at  present  the  roof  is  rudely  slated. 
Thatch  is  out  of  date  in  Kirriemuir  and   is  to  be 

vii 


INTRODUCTION. 


found  only  on  a  single  rusty  row  of  cottages  on  a 
neighbouring  hill.  These  have  strips  of  boards 
fastened  on  the  thatch  to  prevent  its  being  torn 
off  in  a  gale,  but  in  farm-yards  the  stacks  of  hay 

and  grain  have  their  round 
caps  of  thatch  netted  over 
with  ropes. 

Since  "A  Window  in 
Thrums "  became  famous, 
Kirriemuir  and  Hendry's 
cot  have  been  scenes  of 
great  interest.  Many  peo- 
ple visit  the  town  and 
climb  the  brae  just  to  see 
this  humble  little  cottage. 
The  present  tenants  of  the 
cottage  are  plainly  of  a 
thrifty  turn  of  mind,  for  a  black  sign-board  hang- 
ing on  the  outside  bears  the  inscription  "  TlIE 
Window  in  Thrums,"  and  announces  that  "  sou- 
venirs and  lemonade  are  for  sale  within."  There 
is  not  much  to  be  seen  inside  the  house,  which 
consists  of  two  small  rooms  with  a  small  pas- 
sageway between.  On  the  right  hand  is  the 
kitchen   with    its   fire-place,  a   bed,  a  table,  and   a 

viii 


Tifr  •** 


THE    LITTLE    WINDOW. 


INTRODUCTION. 


few  other  primitive  furnishings.  On  the  left  is 
"  the  room,"  which  contains  a  second  bed  and  a 
table  on  which  rests  an  elaborate  lamp,  and  books 
laid  around  the  edge  in  regular  order.  The  bare 
wooden  rafters  used  to  be  seen  in  the  ceiling  of 
these  rooms,  but  the}-  have 
of  late  been  sheathed  from 
sight. 

Upstairs  is  an  unfinished 
attic  which  is  reached  b\' 
a  step-ladder  through  a 
trap-door,  just  as  it  was  in 
the  days  when  the  school- 
master boarded  with  Hen- 
dry. The  eaves  are  almost 
even  with  the  floor,  and 
one  can  hardly  stand  up- 
right under  the  ridgepole. 
There  is  not  much  save  dust  and  rubbish  in  the 
attic  now,  but  it  is  lighted  by  the  little  window 
that  gives  the  book  its  name.  For  the  sake  of 
realism  the  window  should  be  in  the  kitchen 
below,  and  some  of  the  older  inhabitants  sa\'  there 
was  once  a  little  window  like  tliis  in  the  kitchen 
throu''h   which   one  could  look  down   the  brae  on 


THE    OTHER    WINDOW. 


IX 


INTRODUCTION. 

the  town,  but  Mr.  Barrie  has  never  known  of  such 
an  one,  and  there  are  no  indications  in  the  wall  to 
show  that  it  ever  existed.     Apparently  the  interest 


A    REAR    VIEW    OF    THE    TENEMiiNTS. 


in   the    book    has   given   an   early  start    to    myth- 
making. 

The  first  nine  years  of  his  life  Mr.  Barrie  lived 
in  an  ancient  row  of  dwellings  known  as  "  The 
Tenements,"  and  it  was  during  these  early  years 
that  he  acquired  the  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
life  and  language  of  the  poor,  and  the  sympathetic 

X 


INTRODUCTION. 

fcclini^  for  them  which  has  given  his  book  a  pass- 
port to  all  hearts.  He  afterwards  li\'ed  in  what  is 
still  the  home  of  his  father,  a  stone  house  just 
opposite  the  cottage  commemorated  in  his  "Win- 
dow in  Thrums."  Curiously  enough,  he,  himself, 
has  never  been   inside  the  cottage,  but  his  readers 


TOl'  (JF  thk  commontv. 


make  up  for  his  delinquency,  and  spare  no  pains 
to  make  it  fit  his  description  in  every  detail. 

Upon  the  whole,  any  one  visiting  Kirriemuir 
and  h<)i:)ing  to  fmd  in  it  the  "Thrums"  of  Mr. 
Barrie's  creation,  will  be  very  well  satisfied.  There 
is  the  cot  with  its  little  window,  and  the  brae  with 
its  constant  stream  of  people  ascending  and  de- 
scending.    There,  near  by,  is  the  steep   hillsitle  of 

xi 


INTRODUCTION. 

the  "  commonty  "  with  its  bounehuy  of  hcdi^erovvs, 
and  criss-crossed  with  neglected  paths.  Here  the 
children  play  and  the  women  still  come  to  dry 
their  washing.  T'nowhead  farm  and  its  pig-pen 
are  not  far  away ;  the  tenements  where  Tammas 
Haggart  lived  and  the  Auld  Licht  Manse  are  easily 
found  ;  while  the  "  dulseman  "  with  his  barrow  and 
slimy  boxes  is  still  a  familiar  figure.  The  greatest 
changes  one  feels  are  in  the  substitution  of  the  big 
stone  mills  for  the  old  hand-looms  in  the  homes, 
and  the  disappearance  of  the  Auld  Licht  Kirk. 

If  one  chooses  he  may  walk  to  Forfar  (Tillie- 
drum),  by  the  road  over  which  Jamie  tramped  so 
often  when  he  was  a  barber's  apprentice,  and  can 
easily  trace  the  old  farm-road,  and  the  path  across 
the  fields  which  figure  in  the  tragedy  of  the  last 
chapter.  Finally,  there  is  Glen  Ouharity  where  the 
Dominie  lived.  Glen  Cova — -  its  real  name  —  is  a 
wide  fissure  opening  back  into  the  great  heather- 
covered  hills  of  the  Highlands.  The  whole  region  is 
grandly  picturesque  and  awesome  in  its  solitude 
and  vastness.  The  celebrated  little  schoolhouse 
stands  on  the  hillside  half-way  up  the  Glen,  and 
just  beyond  is  Craigiebuckle  farm,  while  the  little 
river  Esk  meanders  through  the  meadow  bottom. 

xii 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  peatstacks  staml  in  the  farni\'ards,  and  the  deer 
graze  on  the  high  moors;  the  snowbanks  ghsten 
white  in  the  ia\ines  of  the  cratjsfv  mountains  even 
in  midsummer,  and  the  peewits  and  the  waterbirds 
scream  at  you  as  you  walk  about  the  fields. 


THE  THRUMS  HOME  OF  MK.  BARKIE. 


Whether  in  the  Glen  or  in  Thrums  itself  Mr. 
Barrie's  book  stands  the  rare  test  of  being  only 
more  endeared  to  the  reader  b)'  familiarity  with 
the  scenes  among  which  it  is  laid;  it  has  the  right 
atmosphere   and   )'ou    feel   its   truth.      To   one   who 

x  i  i  1 


INTRODUCTION. 

loves  the  book,  I  could  not  commend  a  more  fas- 
cinating literary  pilgrimage  than  that  to  Kirriemuir 
and  Glen  Cova. 

The  illustrations  to  this  edition  have  been  made 
with  the  aim  to  picture  faithfully  the  cliaracter- 
istics  and  features  of  the  life  and  the  region  which 
Mr.  Barrie  has  described,  and  if  possible  to  retain 
and  enhance  the  local  flavour  and  the  undying 
beauty  of  the  story.  Mr.  Barrie  has  warmly  com- 
mended the  pictures,  and  this  edition  is  published 
with  his  hearty  consent  and  approval. 

CLIFTON    JOHNSON, 

Hadley,  Mass.,  1896. 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


-♦- 


Chapter  Page 

Introduction v 

I.    The  House  on  the  Bkae  ......  i 

II.     Ox  JHE  Track  of  the  Minister    ...  15 

III.     Preparing  to  receive  Company     ...  26 

IV'.    Waiting  for  the  Doctor 36 

\'.     A  Humorist  on  his  Calling       ....  47 

VI.     Dead  this  Twenty  Years 58 

y\].     The  Statement  of  Tii'.niE  Birse    ...  74 

\  III.     A  Cloak  with   Beads 84 

IX.     The  Power  of  Beauty ,     .  97 

X.     A  I\1.u;num  Opus    ....          ....  105 

XI.     The  Ghost  Cradle 114 

XII.     Tni;  Tracjedy  of  a  Wife 128 

XIII.  Making  the  Bes'i   of  it [37 

XIV.  Visitors  at  the  Manse 147 

XV 


CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Page 

XV.  How  Gavin  Birse  put  it  to  Mag  Lownie     158 

XVI.  The  Son  from  London 

XVII.  A  Home  for  Geniuses 

XVIII.  Leeby  and  Jamie  . 

XIX.  A  Tale  of  a  Glove 

XX.  The  Last  Night    . 

XXI.  Jess  Left  Alone   . 

XXII.  Jamie's  Home-Coming 


170 
189 
197 
213 
228 
238 
250 


GLOSSARY 265 


XVI 


LIST   01''   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

The  Door  to  Hendr\-'s  Cot Frontispiece 

A  Passer  on  the  Brae vii 

The  Little  Window viii 

The  Otlier  Window ix 

A  Rear  V'iew  of  the  Tenements x 

Top  of  the  Commonty xi 

The  Tlirums  Home  of  Mr.  IJarrie xiii 

Hendry's  Cot xvii 

The  Cot  at  tlie  Top  of  the  Brae Facing  i 

A  Tied-on  Roof 2 

The  Burn 5 

Tlie  Brig ■ 6 

Visiting  on  the  Brae 8 

The  Brae 9 

(lame  of  Palauhiys     .     <,     o 'i 

xvii 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Pagr 

Spinning  the  Peerie 12 

I  dree,  I  dree,  I  droppit  it .     .  13 

Playing  at  the  Dambrod .      .  16 

On  the  Brae  with  a  Barrow      .     , 19 

After  Milk 21 

The  Lawyer's  House 23 

At  Work  with  a  Besom        ..........  27 

A  Woman  in  a  White  Mutch 28 

The  Bill-sticker 31 

The  Dulseman 37 

The  Square 43 

At  T'nowhead  Pig-sty 48 

On  T'nowhead  Farm 53 

Going  down  the  Brae 59 

Thrums 63 

The  Loom 67 

Tibbie  Birse 77 

Women  on  the  Brae o     .     .     .     .  85 

Firing  Bannocks ,     ,     .     .  90 

T'nowhead  Farmhouse ,     .  98 

Jimsy  Duthie     .....,,...     =     .,  107 

At  the  Top  of  the  Commonty        112 

In  the  Garden 115 

The  Farm  at  the  Bog      ...........  iicj 

A  Cruizey  Lamp c     ,     .     .  122 

Filling  Pirns ...  131 

The  Auld  Licht  Kirk 135 

Eating  Porridge     ............  138 

In  the  Old  Burying  Ground 144 

The  Manse 148 

A  Little  Housey  in  Glen  Ouharity    .     -                ...  150 

xviii 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

At  tlie  C^ate  of  the  Commonty 153 

The  Garden  Dyke 159 

Craigiebuckle  Farm 161 

The  Stonebreaker 164 

Old  Thatched  Cottages 168 

Tlie  Post 175 

The  Road  from  TiUiedrum 180 

A  Path  on  the  Commonty 183 

A  Heavy  Farm  Road 184 

The  Elbow  of  the  Brae 185 

In  the  Yard  at  T'nowhead 190 

By  the  Bank  of  the  Ouharity 199 

TiUiedrum 207 

The  Schoolhouse  in  the  Cilcn 211 

The  Dominie 215 

The  Attic 221 

A  Long  Lidded  Bed 234 

The  Commonty 239 

The  Poorhouse ...  240 

An  Old  I'ump 244 

The  Tenements 247 

Sugarelly  Water 252 

Zoar 253 

Old  Mill 254 

The  Gate  to  Hendry's  Cot       .........  255 


XIX 


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A  WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   BRAE. 

Ox  the  bump  of  green  round  which  the  brae 
twists,  at  the  top  of  the  brae,  and  within  cry  of 
T'novvhead  Farm,  still  stands  a  one-storey  house, 
whose  whitewashed  walls,  streaked  with  the  dis- 
coloration that  rain  leav^es,  look  yellow  when  the 
snow  comes.  In  the  old  days  the  stiff  ascent 
left  'i'hrums  behind,  and  where  is  now  the  mak- 
ing of  a  suburb  was  only  a  poor  row  of  dwell- 
ings and  a  manse,  with  Hendry's  cot  to  watch 
the  brae.  The  house  stood  bare,  without  a 
shrub,  in  a  garden  whose  paling  ditl  not  go  all 
the  way  round,  the  ])otato  jiit  being  onl\'  kept 
out  of  the  road,  that  here  sets  off  southw.u-tl, 
by  a  broken  d)ke  of  stones  and  earth.  ( )n 
I  I 


A  WINDOW    Ix\    THRUMS. 

each  side  of  the  slate-coloured  door  was  a  win- 
dow of  knotted  glass.  Ropes  were  flung  over 
the  thatch  to  keep  the  roof  on  in  wind. 

Into  this   humble  abode  I  would  take  any  one 
who  cares  to  accompany  me.     But  you  must  not 


A    TIED-ON    ROOF. 

come  in  a  contemptuous  mood,  thinking  that  the 
poor    are    but    a    stage    removed    from    beasts    of 
burden,  as  some  cruel  writers  of  these  days  say; 
nor   will    I    have    you    turn    over    with    your   foot 
the  shabby  horse-hair  chairs  that  Leeby  kept  so 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE. 

spccklcss.  and    Mcndiy  weaved  for  years  to  buy, 
and  Jess  so   lo\cd   to  look  upon. 

I  speak  of  the  chairs,  but  if  \vc  go  together 
into  the  "  room "  they  will  not  be  visible  to 
}ou.  For  a  long  time  the  house  has  been  to 
let.  Here,  on  the  left  of  the  doorway,  as  we 
enter,  is  the  room,  without  a  shred  of  furniture 
in  it  except  the  boards  of  two  closed-in  beds. 
The  flooring  is  not  steady,  and  here  and  there 
holes  have  been  eaten  into  the  planks.  You 
can  scarcely  stand  upright  beneath  the  decay- 
ing ceiling.  Worn  boards  and  ragged  walls,  and 
the  rusty  ribs  fallen  from  the  fireplace,  are  all 
that  meet  your  eyes,  but  I  see  a  round,  unsteady, 
waxcloth-cox'eretl  table,  with  four  books  lying 
at  eejual  distances  on  it.  There  are  six  prim 
chairs,  two  of  them  not  to  be  sat  upon,  backed 
against  the  walls,  and  between  the  window  and 
the  fireplace  a  chest  of  drawers,  with  a  snowy 
ct)\'erlet.  (  )n  the  drawers  stands  a  boartl  with 
coloured  marbles  for  the  game  of  solitaire,  and 
I  li;i\c  onlv  to  open  the  drawer  with  the  loose 
handle  to  luring  out  the  dambrod.  In  the  carved 
wood  frame  over  the  window  hangs  Jamie's  por- 
trait;   in  the  only  other  frame  a  picture  of  Daniel 

3 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

in  the  den  of  lions,  sewn  by  Leeby  in  wool. 
Over  the  chimney-piece  with  its  shells,  in  which 
the  roar  of  the  sea  can  be  heard,  are  strung 
three  rows  of  birds'  eggs.  Once  again  we  might 
be   expecting  company  to  tea. 

The  passage  is  narrow.  There  is  a  square 
hole  between  the  rafters,  and  a  ladder  leading 
up  to  it.  You  may  climb  and  look  into  the 
attic,  as  Jess  liked  to  hear  me  call  my  tiny  gar- 
ret-room. I  am  stiffer  now  than  in  the  days 
when  I  lodged  with  Jess  during  the  summer 
holiday  I  am  tr}-ing  to  bring  back,  and  there 
is  no  need  for  me  to  ascend.  Do  not  laugh  at 
the  newspapers  with  which  Leeby  papered  the 
garret,  nor  at  the  yarn  Hendry  stuffed  into  the 
windy  holes.  He  did  it  to  warm  the  house  for 
Jess.  But  the  paper  must  have  gone  to  pieces 
and  the  yarn  rotted  decades  ago. 

I  have  kept  the  kitchen  for  the  last,  as  Jamie 
did  on  the  dire  day  of  which  I  shall  have  to 
tell.  It  has  a  flooring  of  stone  now,  where 
there  used  only  to  be  hard  earth,  and  a  broken 
pane  in  the  window  is  indifferently  stuffed  with 
rags.  But  it  is  the  other  window  I  turn  to, 
with    a    pain    at    my   heart,  and    pride   and    fond- 

4 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE. 

ness    too,    the    square    foot    of    glass    where    Jess 
sat  in   her  chair  and   looked  down  the  brae. 

Ah,  that  brae !  The  history  of  tragic  little 
Thrums  is  sunk  into  it  like  the  stones  it  swal- 
lows  in  the  winter.     We  have  all  found  the  brae 


»».*;> 


THE   BURN. 


long  and  steep  in  the  spring  of  life.  Do  you 
remember  how  the  child  j'ou  once  were  sat 
at  the  foot  of  it  and  wondered  if  a  new  world 
began  at  the  top?  It  climbs  from  a  shallow 
burn,    and    we    used    to    sit    on    the     brig    a    long 


A  WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 


time  before  venturing  to  climb.  As  boys  we 
ran  up  the  brae.  As  men  and  women,  young 
and  in  our  prime,  we  almost  forgot  that  it  was 
there.  But  the  autumn  of  life  comes,  and  the 
brae    grows    steeper;    then    the    winter,  and   once 


again     we    arc     as     the 


child  pausing  apprehen- 
sively on  the  brig.  Yet 
are  we  no  longer  the 
child  ;  we  look  now  for 
no  new  world  at  the 
top,  only  for  a  little  gar- 
den and  a  tin>-  house, 
and  a  hand-loom  in  the 
house.  It  is  only  a  gar- 
den of  kail  and  potatoes, 
but  there  may  be  a  line 
of  daisies,  white  and  red, 
on  each  side  of  the  nar- 
row footpath,  and  honeysuckle  over  the  door. 
Life  is  not  always  hard,  even  after  backs  grow 
bent,  and  we  know  that  all  braes  lead  only  to 
the  grave. 

This  is  Jess's  window.     For  more  than  twenty 
years    she    had    not    been    able    to    go    so    far    as 

6 


THE    BRIG. 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE. 

the  door,  and  only  once  while  I  knew  her  was 
she  ben  in  the  room.  With  her  husband,  Hen- 
dry, or  their  only  daughter,  Leeby,  to  lean  upon, 
and  her  hand  clutching  her  staft",  she  took  twice 
a  da}',  when  she  was  strong,  the  journey  be- 
tween her  bed  and  the  window  where  stood  her 
chair.  She  did  not  lie  there  looking  at  the 
sparrows  or  at  Leeby  redding  up  the  house, 
and  I  hardl}'  ever  heard  her  complain.  All  the 
sewing  was  done  b\-  her ;  she  often  baked  on  a 
table  pushed  close  to  the  window,  and  by  lean- 
ing forwartl  she  could  stir  the  porridge.  Leeby 
was  seldom  off  her  feet,  but  I  do  not  know  that 
she  did  more  than  Jess,  who  liked  to  tell  me, 
when  she  had  a  moment  to  spare,  that  she  had 
a  terrible  lot    to  be  thankful  for. 

To  those  who  dwell  in  great  cities  Thrums  is 
onl}'  a  small  place,  but  what  a  clatter  of  life  it 
has  for  me  when  I  come  to  it  from  my  school- 
house  in  the  glen.  Had  m\'  lot  been  cast  in 
a  town  I  would  no  doulit  have  sought  country 
parts  during  my  September  holiday;  but  the 
school-house  is  quiet,  even  when  the  summer 
takes  brakes  full  of  sportsmen  and  others  past 
the  top   of  m\'   footpath,   and    I    was   alwa\-s  light- 

7 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

hearted  when  Craigiebuckle's  cart  bore  me  into 
the  din  of  Thrums.  I  only  once  stayed  during 
the  whole  of  my  holiday  at  the  house  on  the 
brae,  but  I  knew  its  inmates  for  many  years, 
including  Jamie,  the  son,  who  was  a  barber  in 
London.  Of  their  ancestry  I  never  heard.  With 
us  it  was  only  some  of  the   articles  of   furniture. 


VISITING   ON    THE    BRAE. 

or  perhaps  a  snuff-mull,  that  had  a  genealogical 
tree.  In  the  house  on  the  brae  was  a  great  kettle, 
called  the  boiler,  that  was  said  to  be  fifty  years  old 
in  the  days  of  Hendry's  grandfather,  of  whom 
nothinsf  more  is  known.  Jess's  chair,  which  had 
carved  arms  and  a  seat  stuffed  with  rags,,  had  been 

8 


THE    HOUSE   ON   THE    BRAE. 

Snecky  Hobart's  father's  before  it  was  hers,  and 
old  Snecky  bought  it  at  a  roup  in  the  Tenements. 
Jess's  rarest  possession  was,  perhaps,  the  christen- 
ing robe,  that  even  people  at  a  distance  came  to 
borrow.  Her  mother  could  count  up  a  hundred 
persons  who   had   been  baptized  in  it. 


THE    BRAE. 


I'-very  one  of  the  hundred,!  bclic\'c,  is  dead,  and 
even  I  cannot  now  i)ick  out  Jess  and  Hendry's 
grave ;  but  I  heard  recent!)'  that  the  christening 
robe  is  still  in  use.  It  is  strange  that  T  should  still 
be  left  after  so  many  changes,  one  of  the  three  or 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

four  who  can  to-day  stand  on  the  brae  and  point 
out  Jess's  window.  The  httle  window  commands 
the  incHnc  to  the  point  where  the  brae  suddenl)' 
jerks  out  of  sight  in  its  chmb  down  into  the  town. 
The  steep  path  up  the  commonty  makes  for  this 
elbow  of  the  brae,  and  thus,  whichever  wa}'  the 
traveller  takes,  it  is  here  that  he  comes  first  into 
sight  of  the  window.  Here,  too,  those  who  go  to 
the  town  from  the  south  gets  their  first  glimpse  of 
Thrums. 

Carts  pass  up  and  down  the  brae  every  few 
minutes,  and  there  comes  an  occasional  gig.  Sel- 
dom is  the  brae  empty,  for  many  live  beyond  the 
top  of  it  now,  and  men  and  women  go  by  to  their 
work,  children  to  school  or  play.  Not  one  of  the 
children  I  see  from  the  window  to-day  is  known 
to  me,  and  most  of  the  men  and  women  I  only 
recognize  by  their  likeness  to  their  parents.  That 
sweet-faced  old  woman  with  the  shawl  on  her 
shoulders  may  be  one  of  the  girls  who  was  playing 
at  the  game  of  palaulays  when  Jamie  stole  into 
Thrums  for  the  last  time;  the  man  who  is  leaning 
on  the  commonty  gate  gathering  breath  for  the  last 
quarter  of  the  brae  may,  as  a  barefooted  callant, 
have  been  one  of  those  who  chased  Cree  Oueery 

lO 


THE    HOUSE   ON   THE    BRAE. 

past  the  poor-house.  I  cannot  sa}' ;  but  this  I 
know,  that  the  grandparents  of  most  of  these  boys 
and  girls  were  once  }'oung  with  me.  If  I  see  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  my  friends  grown  old,  I  also 


GAMK   OF    PAI.AULAYS. 


see  the  grandchildren  spinning  the  peerie  and 
hunkering  at  I-dree-I-dree  —  I-droppit-it  —  as  we 
did  so  long  ago.  The  world  remains  as  young  as 
ever.     The  lovers  that  met  on  the  commonty  in  the 


II 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

gloaming  are  gone,  but  there  are  other  lovers  to 
take  their  place,  and  still  the  commonty  is  here. 
The  sun  had  sunk  on  a  fine  day  in  June,  early  in 
the  century,  when  Hendry  and  Jess,  newly  married, 


SPINNING    THE    PEERIE. 


he  in  a  rich  moleskin  waistcoat,  she  in  a  white  net 
cap,  walked  to  the  house  on  the  brae  that  was  to 
be  their  home.  So  Jess  has  told  me.  Here  again 
has    been   just    such    a    day,    and    somewhere    in 

12 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE. 

Thrums  there  may  be  just  such  a  couple,  setting 
out  for  their  home  behind  a  horse  with  white  ears 
instead  of  walking,  but  with  the  same  hopes  and 
fears,  and  the  same  love-light  in  their    eyes.     The 


.'J^S!fM 


I   DREE,    I    DREE,    1    DKOI'I'IT    IT. 


world  tloes  not  age.  The  hearse  passes  over  the 
brae  and  uj)  the  straight  burying-ground  road,  but 
still  there  is  a  cry  for  the  christening  robe. 

Jess's  window  was  a  beacon  Ijy  night  to  travellers 
in    the   dark,  and    it  will   be   so   in   the    futnn-  when 

13 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

there  are  none  to  remember  Jess.  There  are  many 
such  windows  still,  with  loving  faces  behind  them. 
From  them  we  watch  for  the  friends  and  relatives 
who  are  coming  back,  and  some,  alas  !  watch  in 
vain.  Not  every  one  returns  who  takes  the  elbow 
of  the  brae  bravely,  or  waves  his  handkerchief  to 
those  who  watch  from  the  window  with  wet  eyes, 
and  some  return  too  late.  To  jess,  at  her  window- 
always  vv'hen  she  was  not  in  bed,  things  happy  and 
mournful  and  terrible  came  into  view.  At  this 
window  she  sat  for  twenty  years  or  more  looking 
at  the  world  as  through  a  telescope ;  and  here  an 
awful  ordeal  was  o;one  through  after  her  sweet 
untarnished  soul  had  been  given   back  to  God. 


14 


CHAPTER    IT. 

ON   THE   TRACK   OF   THE   MINISTER. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  Saturday  tliat  carted  me 
and  ni}'  two  boxes  to  Thrums,  I  was  ben  in  the 
room  phuing  Hendry  at  tlie  dambrod.  I  had  one 
of  the  room  chairs,  but  Leeby  brought  a  chair  from 
the  kitchen  for  her  father.  Our  door  stood  open, 
and  as  Hendry  often  pondered  for  two  minutes 
with  his  hand  on  a  "  man,"  I  could  have  joined  in 
the  gossip  that  was  going  on  but  the  house. 

"Ay,  weel,  then,  Leeby,"  said  Jess,  suddenly, 
"  1  '11  warrant  the  minister  '11  no  be  preachin'  the 
morn." 

This  took  Leeb}'  to  the  window. 

"  Yea,  yea,"  she  said  (and  I  knew  she  was 
nodding  her  head  sagaciousl\-)  ;  I  looked  out  at 
the  room  window,  but  all  I  coulil  see  was  a  man 
wheeling  an  empty  barrow    down   the  brae. 

"That's  Robbie  Tosh,"  continued  Leeby;  "an' 
there  's  nae  doot  'at  he  's  makkin  R)r  the  minister's, 

15 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

for  he  has  on  his  black  coat.  He  '11  be  to  row  the 
minister's  luggage  to  the  post-cart.  Ay,  an'  that 's 
Davit  Lu nan's  barrow  I  ken  it  bv  the  shaft's 
bein'  spliced  wi'  yarn.  Davit  broke  the  shaft  at 
the  saw- mi  11." 


PLAYING   AT   THE   DAMBROD. 


"  He  '11  be  gaen  awa  for  a  curran  (number  of) 
days,"  said  Jess,  "  or  he  w^ould  juist  hae  taen  his 
bag.  Ay,  he  '11  be  awa  to  Edinbory,  to  see  the 
la.ss." 

"  I  wonder  wha  '11  be  to  preach  the  morn  —  tod, 

i6 


ON   THE   TRACK     OF   THE    MINISTER. 

it'll   likely  be  Mr.  Skinner,   frae   Dundee;    him  an' 
the  minister  's  chief,  }-e  ken." 

"  Ve  niicht  y,ang  up  to  the  attic,  Leeby,  an'  see 
if  the  spare  bedroom  vent  (chinine\)  at  the  manse 
is  gaen.  We're  sure,  if  it's  I\Ir.  Skinner,  he'll 
come  \vi'  the  post  frae  Tilliedrum  the  nicht,  an' 
sleep  at  the  manse." 

"  Weel,  I  assure  ye,"  said  Leeby,  descending  from 
the  attic,  "  it  '11  no  be  Mr.  Skinner,  for  no  only  is 
the  spare  bedroom  vent  no  gaen,  but  the  blind  's 
drawn  doon  frae  tap  to  fut,  so  they  're  no  even 
airin'  the  room.  Na,  it  canna  be  him;  an'  what's 
mair,  it'll  be  naebody  'at 's  to  bide  a'  nicht  at  the 
manse." 

"I  wouldna  say  that ;  na,  na.  It  may  only  be 
a  student;  an'  Marget  Dundas  "  (the  minister's 
mother  and  housekeeper)  "  michtna  think  it  neces- 
sary to  put  on  a  fire  for  him." 

'*  Tod.  I  '11  tell  ye  wha  it  '11  be.  I  wonder  I  didna 
think  o'  'im  sooner.  It'll  be  the  lad  Wilkie ;  him 
'at's  mither  mairit  on  Sam'l  Duthie's  wife's  brither. 
They  bide  in  Cupar,  an'  I  mind  'at  when  the  son 
was  here  twa  or  three  year  syne  he  was  juist  gaen 
to  begin  the  divecnity  classes  in  Glesca." 

"  If  that's  so,  Leeby,  he   would  be  sure  to   bide 

2  17 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

\vi'     Sam'l.       Hendry,    hac    ye     heard    'at    Sam'l 
Duthie 's    expeckin'   a  stranger  the  nicht?" 

"  Hand  yer  tongue,"  rephed  Hendry,  who  was 
having  the  worst  of  the  game. 

"  Ay,  but  I  ken  he  is,"  said  Leeby  triumphantly 
to  her  mother,  "  for  ye  mind  when  I  was  in  at 
Johnny  Watt's  (the  draper's)  Chirsty  (Sam'l's  wife) 
was  buyin'  twa  yards  o'  chintz,  an'  I  couldna  think 
what  she  woukl  be  w^antin'   't  for !  " 

"  I  thocht  Johnny  said  to  y<,'  'at  it  was  for  a 
present  to  Chirsty's  auntie?" 

"Ay,  but  he  juist  guessed  that;  for,  though  he 
tried  to  get  oot  o'  Chirsty  what  she  wanted  the 
chintz  for,  she  wouldna  tell  'im.  But  I  see  noo 
what  she  was  after.  The  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide 
wi'  them,  and  Chirsty  had  bocht  the  chintz  to 
cover  the  airm-chair  wi'.  It's  ane  o'  thae  hair- 
bottomed  chairs,  but  terrible  torn,  so  she  '11  hae 
covered  it  for  him  to   sit  on." 

"  I  wouldna  wonder  but  ye  're  richt,  Leeby  ;  for 
Chirsty  would  be  in  an  oncommon  fluster  if  she 
thocht  the  lad's  mither  was  likely  to  hear  'at  her 
best  chair  was  torn.  Ay,  ay,  bein'  a  man,  he 
wouldna  think  to  tak  aff  the  chintz  an'  hae  a  look 
at  the  chair  withoot  it." 

i8 


ON   THE   TRACK    OF    THE    MINISTER. 

Here   Hendr\-,   who    had    paid    no   attention    to 
the  conversation,  broke  in  — 

"  Was  ye   speirin'  had    I   seen  Sam'l  Duthie?     I 


ON    THE    KKAE   WITH    A    P.AKKOW. 


saw    'im    yesterday    bu)'in'    a    fender    at   W'ill'uin 
Crook's   roup." 

"  A  fender  !  Ay,  a\',  that  settles  the  queistion," 
said  Leeby.  "  I  '11  warrant  the  fender  was  for 
Chirsty's  parlour.      It's  preyed  on  Chirsty's  mind, 

19 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

they  say,  this  fower-and-thirty  year  'at  she  doesna 
hac  a  richt  parlour  fender." 

"  Leeby,  look !  That 's  Robbie  Tosh  wi'  the 
barrow.  He  has  a  michty  load  o'  luggage.  Am 
thinkin'  the  minister  's  bound   for  Tilliedrum." 

"  Na,  he's  no;  he's  gaen  to  Edinbory,  as  ye 
micht  ken  by  the  bandbox.  That  '11  be  his  mither's 
bonnet  he 's  takkin'  back  to  get  altered.  Ye  '11 
mind  she  was  never  pleased  wi'  the  set  o'  the 
flowers." 

"  Weel,  weel,  here  comes  the  minister  himsel,  an' 
very  snod  he  is.  Ay,  Marget  's  been  puttin'  new 
braid  on  his  coat,  an'  he  's  carryin'  the  sma'  black 
bag  he  bocht  in  Dundee  last  year:  he'll  hae 's 
nicht-shirt  an'  a  comb  in 't,  I  dinna  doot.  Ye 
micht  rin  to  the  corner,  Leeby,  an'  see  if  he  cries 
in  at  Jess  McTaggart's  in  passin'.  " 

"It's  my  opeenion,"  said  Leeby,  returning  ex- 
citedly from  the  corner,  "  'at  the  lad  Wilkie  's  no 
to  be  preachin'  the  morn,  after  a'.  When  I  gangs 
to  the  corner,  at  ony  rate,  what  think  ye  's  the  first 
thine  I  see  but  the  minister  an'  Sam'l  Duthie 
meetin'  face  to  face?  Ay,  weel,  it's  gospel  am 
tellin'  ye  when  I  say  as  Sam'l  flung  back  his  head 
an'  walkit  richt  by  the  minister !  " 

20 


ON   THE   TRACK   OF   THE    MINISTER. 

"  Losh  keep's  a',  Leeby ;  ye  say  that?  They 
maun  hae  haen  a  quarrel." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  we  '11  hae  Mr.  Skinner  i'  the  poopit 
the  morn  after  a'." 

"  It   may  be.  it   may  be.     Ay,   ay,   look,  Leeby ; 


AFTER    MILK, 


whatna  bit  kimmer 's  that   wi'  the   twa  juqs   in  her 
hand?  " 

"Eh?  On,  it'll  be  Lawyer  Ogilvy's  servant 
lassieky  gacn  to  the  farm  o'  T'nowhead  for  the 
milk.     She  gangs  ilka   Saturday   nicht.     l^ut  what 


21 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

did  ye  say  —  twa  jugs?  Tod,  let 's  see!  Ay,  she 
has  so,  a  big  jug  an'  a  little  aue.  The  little  ane'U 
be  for  cream ;  an',  sal,  the  big  ane  's  bigger  na 
usual." 

"There  maun  be  something  gaen  on  at  the 
lawyer's  if  they  're  buyin'  cream,  Leeby.  Their 
reg'lar  thing 's  twopence  worth  o'  milk." 

"  Ay,  but  I  assure  ye  that  sma'  jug  's  for  cream, 
an'  I  dinna  doot  mysel  but  'at  there  's  to  be  fower- 
pence  worth  o'  milk  this  nicht." 

"  There's  to  be  a  puddin'  made  the  morn,  Leeby. 
Ou,  ay,  a'  thing  points  to  that;  an'  we're  very 
sure  there's  nae  puddins  at  the  lawyer's  on  the 
Sabbath  onless  they  hae  company." 

"  I  dinna  ken  wha  they  can  hae,  if  it  be  na  that 
brither  o'  the  wife's  'at  bides  oot  by  Aberdeen." 

"  Na,  it's  no  him,  Leeb}' ;  na,  na.  He's  no  weel 
to  do,  an'  they  wouldna  be  buyin'  cream  for  'im." 

"I  '11  run  up  to  the  attic  again,  an'  see  if  there's 
ony  stir  at  the  law)'er's  hoose." 

By  and  b\'  Leeby  returned  in  triumph. 

"  Ou,  ay,"  she  said,  "they're  expcctin'  veesitors 
at  the  lawyer's,  for  I  could  see  twa  o'  the  bairns 
dressed  up  to  the  nines,  an'  Mistress  Ogilvy  doesna 
dress  at  them  in  that  wy  for  naething." 

22 


ON   THE   TRACK   OF   THE    MINISTER. 

"  It  fair  beats  me  though,  Leeby,  to  guess  wha  's 
coniin'  to  them.  A\-,  but  stop  a  meenutc,  I 
wouldna  wonder,  no.  reallx'  I  would  not  wonder 
but  what  it'll   be " 

"The  very  thing  'at  was  passin'  through  my 
head,  mother." 


THE    lawyer's    house. 

"  Ye  mean  'at  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide  wi' 
the  law)er  i'stead  o'  wi'  Sam'l  Duthie?  Sal,  am 
thinkin'  that  's  it.  Ye  ken  Sam'l  an'  the  law}er 
married  on  cousins;  but  Mistress  Ogilvy  a)'e  lookit 
on  Chirsty  as  dirt  aneath   her  feet.     She  would  be 

23 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

glad  to  get  a  minister,  though,  to  the  hoose,  an'  so 
I  warrant  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide  a'  nicht  at 
the  lawyer's." 

"  But  what  would  Chirsty  be  doin'  gettin'  the 
chintz  an'  the  fender  in  that  case?" 

"  Ou,  she'd  been  expeckin'  the  lad,  of  course. 
Sal,  she  '11  be  in  a  michty  tantrum  aboot  this.  I 
wouldna  wonder  though  she  gets  Sam'l  to  gang 
ower  to  the  U.  P.'s." 

Leeby  went  once  more  to  the  attic. 

"  Ye  're  wrang,  mother,"  she  cried  out.  "  Wha- 
ever  's  to  preach  the  morn  is  to  bide  at  the  manse, 
for  the  minister's  servant 's  been  at  Baker  Duff's 
buyin'  short-bread  —  half  a  lippy,  nae  doot." 

"  Are  ye  sure  o'  that,  Leeby?  " 

"  Oh,  am  certain.  The  servant  gaed  in  to  Duff's 
the  noo,  an',  as  ye  ken  fine,  the  manse  fowk  doesna 
deal  wi'  him,  except  they're  wantin'  short-bread. 
He's  Auld   Kirk." 

Leeby  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  Jess  sat  for 
a  time  ruminatimr. 

"  The  lad  Wilkie,"  she  said  at  last,  triumphantly, 
"  '11  be  to  bide  at  Lawyer  Ogilvy's ;  but  he  '11  be 
gaen  to  the  manse  the  morn  for  a  tea-dinner." 


24 


ON    THE   TRACK   OF   THE    MINISTER. 

"  But  what,"  asked  Leeby,  "  aboot  the  milk  an' 
the  cream  for  the  lawyer's?" 

"  Ou,  they  '11  be  haen  a  puddin'  for  the  supper 
the  nicht.  That 's  a  michty  genteel  thing,  I  've 
heard." 

It  turned  out  that  Jess  was  right  in  every 
particular. 


CHAPTER    in. 

PREPARING  TO    RECEIVE   COMPANY. 

Leeby  was  at  the  fire  brandering  a  quarter  of 
steak  on  the  tongs,  when  the  house  was  flung 
into  consternation  by  Hendry's  casual  remark  that 
he  had  seen  Tibbie  Mealmaker  in  the  town  with 
her  man. 

"  The  Lord  preserve  's  !  "  cried  Leeby. 

Jess  looked  quickly  at  the  clock. 

"  Half  fower  !  "  she  said  excitedly. 

"  Then  it  canna  be  dune,"  said  Leeby,  falling 
despairingly  into  a  chair,  "  for  they  may  be  here 
ony  meenute." 

"It's  most  michty,"  said  Jess,  turning  on  her 
husband,  "  'at  ye  should  tak  a  pleasure  m  bringin' 
this  hoose  to  disgrace.  Hoo  did  ye  no  tell 's 
suner? " 

"I  fair  forgot,"  Hendry  answ^ered,  "but  what's 

a'  yer  steer?  " 

26 


PREPARING   TO    RECEIVE   COMPANY. 

Jess  looked  at  me  (she  often  did  this)  in  a  way 
that  meant,  "  What  a  man  is  this  I  'm  tied  to  !  " 
"Steer!"    she   exclaimed.      "  Is 't    no    time   we 


AT    WORK    WITH    A    P.ESOM. 


was  makkin  a  steer?  Thc\' '11  be  in  for  their  tea 
ony  meennte,  an'  the  room  no  sae  mnckle  as 
sweepit.      Ay,    an'    mc    lookin'    like   a  sweep;    an' 

27 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Tibbie  Mealmakcr  'at 's  sac  partiklcr  genteel  seein' 
you  sic  a  sicht  as  ye  are  !  " 

Jess  shook  Hendry  out  of  his  chair,  while  Leeby 
began  to  sweep  with  the  one  hand,  and  agitatedly 
to  unbutton  her  wrapper  with  the  other. 

"  She  didna  see  me,"  said   Hendry,  sitting  down 

forlornly  on  the  table. 

"  Get  aft'  that  table  !  " 
cried  Jess.  "  See  hand 
o'  the  besom,"  she  said 
to  Leeby. 

"  For  mercy's  sake, 
mother,"  said  Leeby, 
"  gie  yer  face  a  dicht, 
an'  put  on  a  clean 
mutch." 

"  I  '11  open  the  door 
if  they  come  afore  you 

A  WOMAN  IN  A  WHITE  MUTCH. 

're  ready,"  said  Hendry, 
as  Leeby  pushed  him  against  the  dresser. 

"  Ye  daur  to  speak  aboot  openin'  the  door,  an' 
you  sic  a  mess !  "  cried  Jess,  with  pins  in  her 
mouth. 

"Havers!"  retorted  Hendry.  "A  man  canna 
be  aye  washin'  at  'imsel." 

28 


PREPARING    TO    RECEIVE    COMPANY. 

Seeing  that  Hendrx'  was  as  much  in  the  \va)'  as 
myself,  I  invited  him  upstairs  to  the  attic,  whence 
we  heard  Jess  and  Leeby  upbraiding  each  other 
shrill)".  1  was  aware  that  the  room  was  speckless  ; 
but  tor  all  that,  Lecb}'  was  turning  it  upside 
down. 

"She's  aye  taen  like  that,"  Hendry  said  to  me, 
referring  to  his  wife,  "  when  she  's  expectin"  com- 
pany. Ay,  it  's  a  peety  she  canna  tak  things 
cannier." 

"  Tibbie  Mealmaker  must  be  some  one  of  im- 
portance?" I  asked. 

"  Ou,  she  's  naething  by  the  ord'nar' ;  but  ye  see 
she  was  mairit  to  a  Tillicdrum  man  no  king  syne, 
an'  they  're  said  to  hae  a  michty  grand  establish- 
ment. Ay,  they  've  a  wardrobe  spleet  new ;  an' 
what  think  ye  Tibbie  wears  ilka  day?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  It  w^as  Chirsty  Miller  'at  put  it  through  the 
toon,"  Ilcndr)-  continued.  "  Chirsty  was  in  Tillic- 
drum last  Teisday  or  Wednesday,  an'  Tibbie  gae 
her  a  cup  o'  tea.  Ay,  wcel,  Tibbie  telt  Chirsty  'at 
.'^he  wears  hose  ilka  day." 

*'  Wears  hose?  " 

"  Ay.     It 's  some  michty  grand  kind  o'  stockin'. 

29 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

I  never  heard  o't  in  this  toon.     Na,  there  's  naebody 
in  Thrums  'at  wears  hose." 

"And  who  did  Tibbie  get?"  I  asked;  for  in 
Thrums  they  say,  "  Wha  did  she  get?  "  and  "  Wha 
did  he  tak?" 

"  His  name  's  Davit  Curly.  Ou,  a  crittur  fu'  o' 
maggots,  an'  nae  great  match,  for  he  's  juist  the 
TiUiedrum  bill-sticker." 

At  this  moment  Jess  shouted  from  her  chair 
(she  was  burnishing  the  society  teapot  as  she 
spoke),  "  Mind,  Hendry  McOumpha,  'at  upon  nae 
condition  arc  ye  to  mention  the  bill-stickin'  afore 
Tibbie  !  " 

"  Tibbie,"  Hendry  explained  to  me,  "  is  a  terrible 
vain  tid,  an'  doesna  think  the  bill-stickin'  tjentecl. 
Ay,  they  say  'at  if  she  meets  Davit  in  the  street 
wi'  his  paste-pot  an'  the  brush  in  his  hands  she 
pretends  no  to  ken  'im." 

Every  time  Jess  paused  to  think  she  cried  up 
orders,  such  as  — 

"  Dinna  call  her  Tibbie,  mind  ye.  Always 
address  her  as  Mistress  Curly." 

"  Shak  hands  wi'  baith  o'  them,  an'  say  ye  hope 
they  're  in  the  enjoyment  o'  guid  health." 

"  Dinna  put  yer  feet  on  the  table." 

30 


TllK    JULL-STICKER. 


PREPARING   TO    RECEIVE   COMPANV. 

"Mind,  \-ou 're  no  to  mention  ';it  }-e  kent  they 
were  in  tlie  toon." 

"  When  onybody  passes  ye  yer  tea,  say  'Thank 
ye. 

"  Dinna  stir  \-er  tea  as  if  ye  was  churnin'  butter, 
nor  let  on  'at  the  scones  is  no  our  ain  bakin'." 

"  If  Tibbie  says  onything  aboot  the  china  yer 
no  to  say  'at  we  dinna  use  it  ilka  da)'." 

"Dinna  lean  back  in  the  big  chair,  for  it's 
broken,  an'  Leeby  's  gien  it  a  lick  o'  ghie  this 
meenute." 

"  When  Leeby  gies  ye  a  kick  aneath  the  table, 
that  '11  be  a  sign  to  }'e  to  say  grace." 

Hendry  looked  at  me  apologetically  while  these 
instructions  came  up. 

"  I  winna  di\'e  mv  head  wi'  sic  nonsense,"  he 
said  ;  "  it  's  no  for  a  man  bod\'  to  be  sae  crammed 
fu'  o'  manners." 

"  Come  awa  doon,"  Jess  shouted  to  him,  "  an' 
put  on  a  clean  dickey." 

"  I  '11  better  do  't  to  please  her,"  said  Hendry, 
"  though  for  my  ain  part  1  dinna  like  the  feel  o' 
a  dickey  on  week-days.  Na,  they  mak  's  think  it 's 
the  Sabbath." 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  I  went  downstairs  to 
J  3o 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

see  how  the  preparations  were  progressing.  Fresh 
musHn  curtains  had  been  put  up  in  the  room.  The 
grand  footstool,  worked  by  Leeby,  was  so  placed 
that  Tibbie  could  not  help  seeing  it ;  and  a  fine 
cambric  handkerchief,  of  which  Jess  was  very  proud, 
was  hanging  out  of  a  drawer  as  if  bv  accident.  An 
antimacassar  lying  carelessly  on  the  seat  of  a  chair 
concealed  a  rent  in  the  horse-hair,  and  the  china 
ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece  were  so  placed  that 
they  looked  whole.  Leeby's  black  merino  was 
hanging  near  the  window  in  a  good  light,  and  Jess's 
Sabbath  bonnet,  which  was  never  worn,  occupied 
a  nail  beside  it.  The  tea-things  stood  on  a  tra\'  in 
the  kitchen  bed,  whence  they  could  be  quickly 
brought  into  the  room,  just  as  if  they  were  always 
ready  to  be  used  daily.  Leeby,  as  yet  in  deshabille, 
was  shaving  her  father  at  a  tremendous  rate,  and 
Jess,  looking  as  fresh  as  a  daisy,  was  ready  to 
receive  the  visitors.  She  was  peering  through  the 
tiny  window-blind  looking  for  them. 

"  Be  cautious,  Leeby,"  Hendry  was  saying,  when 
Jess  shook  her  hand  at  him.  "  Wheesht,"  she 
whispered  ;    "  the\'  're  comin'." 

Hendry  was  hustled  into  his  Sabbath  coat,  and 
then  came  a  tap   at  the  door,  a  very  genteel  tap. 

34 


PREPARING   TO    RECEIVE    COMPANY. 

Jess  nodded  to  Leeb\',  who  softly  shov^ed   Hendry 
into  the  room. 

The  tap  was  repeated,  but  Lecb\'  pushed  her 
father  intt)  a  chair  and  thrust  Barrow's  Sermons 
open  into  his  hand.  Then  she  stole  but  the 
house,  and  swiftly  buttoned  her  wrapper,  speaking 
to  Jess  b\'  nods  the  while.  There  was  a  third 
knock,  whereupon  Jess  said,  in  a  loud,  Englishy 
voice  — 

"  Was  not  that  a  chap  at  the  cioor?  " 

Hendr}^  was  about  to  repl\',  but  she  shook  her 
fist  at  him.  Next  moment  Lceby  opened  the  door. 
I  was  upstairs,  but  I  lieard  Jess  sa)' - — 

"Dear  me,  if  it's  not  Mrs.  Curly  —  and  Mr. 
Curl)'!  And  hoo  are  ye?  Come  in,  by.  Weel, 
this  is,  indeed,  a  pleasant  surprise  !  " 


35 


CHAPTER   IV. 

WAITING   FOR   THE   DOCTOR, 

Jess  had  gone  early  to  rest,  and  the  door  of  her 
bed  in  the  kitchen  was  pulled  to.  From  her 
window  I  saw  Hendry  binding  dulse. 

Now  and  again  the  dulseman  wheeled  his  slimy 
boxes  to  the  top  of  the  brae,  and  sat  there  stolidly 
on  the  shafts  of  his  barrow.  Many  passed  him 
by,  but  occasionally  some  one  came  to  rest  by  his 
side.  Unless  the  customer  was  loquacious,  there 
was  no  band}ing  of  words,  and  Hendry  merely 
unbuttomed  his  east-trouser  pocket,  giving  his 
body  the  angle  at  which  the  pocket  could  be  most 
easily  filled  b_\^  the  dulseman.  He  then  deposited 
his  halfpenny,  and  moved  on.  Neither  had  spoken  ; 
yet  in  the  country  they  would  have  roared  their 
predictions  about  to-morrow  to  a  ploughman  half 
a  field  away. 

Dulse  is  roasted  by  twisting  it  round  the  tongs 
fired  to  a  red-heat,  and  the  house  was  soon  heavy 

36 


WAITING    FOR   THE    DOCTOR. 

Willi  the  smell  of  burning  sea-weed.  Leeb)'  was 
at  the  tlresser  niunchinL;'  it  froni  a  br()th-[)late, 
while  Heiuh-)-,  on  his  knees  at  the  fireplace,  gin- 
gerl\-  tore  off  the  blades  of  dulse  that  were  stick- 
ing to  the  tongs,  and  licked  his  singed  fingers. 


..'^I^^P 


THE    DULSEMAN. 


"  W'haur 's  }-cr  mother?"   he  asked  Leeby. 

"  Ou,"  said  Leeb}',  "  whaur  would  she  be  but 
in   her  bed?  " 

Hcndrx' ti)ok'  the  tongs  to  the  door,  and  woukl 
have  clrant'd   tinin   himself,  had    not    Leeb\'    (who 

37 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

often  talked    his    interfering  ways    over    with    her 
mother)   torn   them  from   his  hands. 

"  Leeby  !  "  cried  Jess  at  that  moment. 

"  Ay,"  answered  Leeby,  leisurely,  not  noticing, 
as  I  happened  to  do,  that  Jess  spoke  in  an  agi- 
tated voice. 

"What  is't?"  asked  Hendr)-,  who  liked  to  be 
told  things. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  bed. 

"  Yer  mother's  no  weel,"  he  said  to  Leeby. 

Leeby  ran  to  the  bed,  and  I  went  ben  the  house. 

In  another  two  minutes  we  were  a  group  of 
four  in  the  kitchen,  staring  vacantly.  Death 
could  not  have  startled  us  more,  tapping  thrice 
that  quiet  night  on   the  window-pane. 

"  It 's  diphtheria  !  "  said  Jess,  her  hands  trem- 
bling as  she  buttoned    her  wrapper. 

She  looked  at  me,  and  Leeby  looked  at  me. 

"  It 's  no,  it 's  no,"  cried  Leeb}',  and  her  voice 
was  as  a  fist  shaken  at  ni)-  face.  She  blamed  me 
for  hesitating  in  my  reply.  But  ever  since  this 
malady  left  me  a  lonel\'  dominie  for  life,  diphtheria 
has  been  a  knockdown  word  for  me.  Jess  had 
discovered  a  great  white  spot  on  her  throat.  I 
knew  the  symptoms. 

38 


WAITING   FOR   THE    DOCTOR. 

"  Is 't  dangerous?"  asked  Hendrx',  who  once 
had  a  headache  }'ears  before,  and  could  still  refer 
to  it  as  a  reminiscence. 

"  Them  'at  has  't  never  recovers,"  said  Jess, 
sitting;  down  ver\-  quieth'.  A  stick  fell  from  the 
fire,  and  she  bent  forward  to  replace  it. 

"They  do  recover,"  cried  Leeby,  again  turning 
angry  e}'es  on  me. 

I  could  not  face  her;  I  had  known  so  many 
who  did  not  recover.  She  put  her  hand  on  her 
mother's  shoulder. 

"  Mebbe  you  would  be  better  in  }-er  bed," 
suggested  Hendry. 

No  one  spoke. 

"When  I  had  the  headache,"  said  Hendr}',  "I 
was  better  in  m\-  bed." 

Leeb}-  had  taken  Jess's  hand  —  a  worn  old 
liand  that  had  many  a  time  gone  out  in  love 
and  kindness  when  )-ounger  hands  were  cold. 
Poets  have  sung  and  fighting  men  have  done 
great  deeds  for  hands  that  never  had  such  a 
record. 

"  If  )'e  could  eat  something,"  said  Hcndr}',  "  I 
would  gae  to  the  fiesher's  for  't.  I  mind  when 
I  had  the  headache,  hoo  a  small  steak  — " 

39 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Gac  awa   for    the    doctor,   rayther,"   broke    in 

Lccby. 

Jess  started,  for  sufferers  think  there  is  less 
hope  for  them  after  the  doctor  has  been  called 
in  to  pronounce  sentence. 

"  I  winna  hae  the  doctor,"  she  said  anxiously. 
In  answer  to  Leeby's  nods,  Hendry  slowly 
pulled  out  his  boots  from  beneath  the  table,  and 
sat  looking  at  them,  preparatory  to  putting  them 
on.  He  was  beginning  at  last  to  be  a  little 
scared,  though  his  face  did  not  show  it. 

"  I  winna  hae  ye,"  cried  Jess,  getting  to  her 
feet,  "  gacn  to  the  doctor's  sic  a  sicht.  Yer 
coat 's  a'  yarn." 

"  Havers,"  said  Hendry,  but  Jess  became  frantic. 
I  offered  to  go  for  the  doctor,  but  while  I  was 
upstairs  looking  for  my  bonnet  I  heard  the  door 
slam.  Leeby  had  become  impatient,  and  darted 
off  herself,  buttoning  her  jacket  probably  as  she 
ran.  When  I  returned  to  the  kitchen,  Jess  and 
Hendry  were  still  by  the  fire.  Hendry  was  beat- 
ing a  charred  stick  into  sparks,  and  liis  wife  sat 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap.  I  saw  Hendry  look 
at  her  once  or  twice,  but  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing  to  say.     His   terms   of  endearment   had   died 

40 


WAITING    FOR   THE    DOCTOR. 

out  thii't_\'-nine  \-ears  before  with  his  courtship. 
He  had  forgotten  the  words.  For  his  hfe  he 
could  not  have  crossed  over  to  Jess  and  i)ut  his 
arm  round  her.  Yet  he  was  uneasy.  His  eyes 
wandered  round  the  poorl\-  ht  room. 

"Will  \-e  hae  a  drink  o'   watter?  "  he  asked. 

There  was  a  sound   of  footsteps  outside. 

"That'll  be  him,"  said   Hendry  in  a  whisper. 

Jess  started  to  her  feet,  and  told  Hendry  to 
help  her  ben  the  house. 

The  steps  died  awa)',  but  I  fancied  that  Jess, 
now  highly  strung,  had  gone  into  hiding,  and  I 
went  after  her.  I  was  mistaken.  She  had  lit  the 
room  lamp,  turning  the  crack  in  the  globe  to  the 
wall.  The  sheepskin  hearthrug,  which  was  gen- 
erall}'  carefully  packed  a\\a\'  beneath  the  bed, 
had  been  spread  out  before  the  empty  fireplace, 
and  Jess  was  on  the  arm-chair  hurriedh'  put- 
ting on  her  grand  black  mutch  with  the  pink- 
flowers. 

"  I    was   juist    makkin    mysel    respectable,"    she 
said,  but  without  WW-   in   her  voice. 

This   was  the   only  time   I    ever  saw   her  in  the 
room. 

Leeby  returned   i)anting  to  say  that  the  doctor 

41 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

might    be    expected    in   an    hour.     He    was   away 
among  the  hills. 

The  hour  passed  reluctantly.  Leeby  lit  a  fire 
ben  the  house,  and  then  put  on  her  Sabbath 
dress.  She  sat  with  her  mother  in  the  room. 
Ne\'er  before  had  I  seen  Jess  sit  so  quieth',  for 
her  way  was  to  work  until,  as  she  said  herself, 
she  was  ready  "  to  fall  into  her  bed." 

Hendry  wandered  between  the  two  rooms, 
always  in  the  way  when  Leeby  ran  to  the  win- 
dow to  see  if  that  was  the  doctor  at  last.  He 
would  stand  gaping  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
for  five  minutes,  then  slowl)-  withdraw  to  stand 
as  drearily  but  the  house.  His  face  lengthened. 
At  last  he  sat  down  by  the  kitchen  fire,  a  Bible 
in  his  hand.  It  lay  open  on  his  knee,  but  he 
did  not  read  much.  He  sat  there  with  his  legs 
outstretched,  looking  straight  before  him.  I  be- 
lieve he  saw  Jess  young  again.  His  face  was 
very  solemn,  and  his  mouth  twitched.  The  fire 
sank  into  ashes  unheeded. 

I  sat  alone  at  my  attic  window  for  hours,  wait- 
ing for  the  doctor.  From  the  attic  I  could  see 
nearly  all  Thrums,  but,  until  ver}-  late,  the  night 
was  dark,  and   the   brae,  except    immediately  be- 

42 


WAiriXG    FOR  THE    DOCTOR. 

fore  the  door,  was  blurred  and  dim.  A  sheet  of 
light  canopied  the  square  as  long  as  a  cheap 
Jack    paraded     his    goods    there.     It    was    gone 


i        J 


1  P^ 


J 


THE   SQUARE. 


before  the  moon  came  out.  T^igures  tramped, 
tramped  up  the  brae,  passed  the  house  in  shadow 
and  stole  silently  on.  A  man  or  boy  whistling 
seemed  to  fill  the  \\alley.  The  moon  arri\'cd  too 
late  to  be  of  service  to  an}'  ua\-farcr.  h!ver\-- 
bod\-  in  Til  rums  was  asleep  but  ourselves,  and 
the  doctor  who   never  came.  ♦ 

43 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

About  midnight  Hendry  climbed  the  attic  stair 
and  joined  me  at  the  window.  His  hand  was 
shaking  as  he  pulled  back  the  blind.  I  began 
to   realize  that  his   heart  could  still  overflow. 

"  She  's  waur,"  he  whispered,  like  one  who 
had  lost  his  voice. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  silentl}-,  his  hand  on 
the  blind.  He  was  so  different  from  the  Hendry 
I  had  known,  that  I  felt  myself  in  the  presence  of 
a  strange  man.  His  eyes  were  glazed  with  star- 
ing at  the  turn  of  the  brae  where  the  doctor 
must  first  come  into  sight.  His  breathing  be- 
came heavier,  till  it  was  a  gasp.  Ihen  I  put 
my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  stared  at 
me. 

"  Nine-and-thirty  years  come  June,"  he  said, 
speaking  to   himself. 

For  this  length  of  time,  I  knew,  he  and  Jess 
had  been  married.  He  repeated  the  words  at 
intervals. 

"  I  mind  —  "  he  began,  and  stopped.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  spring-time  of  Jess's  life. 

The  night  ended  as  we  watched ;  then  came 
the  terrible  moment  that  precedes  the  day  —  the 
moment  known   to    shuddering   watchers    by  sick 

44 


WAITING   FOR   THE    DOCTOR. 

beds,  when  a  chill  wind  cnts  through  the  house, 
and  the  world  without  seems  cold  in  death.  It 
is  as  if  the  heart  of  the  earth  did  not  mean  to 
continue  beating. 

"  This  is  a  fearsome  nicht,"  Hendry  said, 
hoarseh'. 

He  turned  to  grope  his  way  to  the  stairs,  but 
suddenly  went  down  on  his  knees  to  pray.   .   .   . 

There  was  a  quick  step  outside.  I  arose  in 
time  to  see  the  doctor  on  the  brae.  He  tried 
the  latch,  but  Leeby  was  there  to  show  him  in. 
The  door  of  the   room   closed  on   him. 

From  the  top  of  the  stair  I  could  see  into  the 
dark  passage,  and  make  out  Hendry  shaking  at 
the  door.  I  could  hear  the  doctor's  voice,  but 
not  the  words  he  said.  There  was  a  painful 
silence,  and  then   Leeby  laughed  joyously. 

"  It  's  gone,"  cried  Jess ;  "  the  white  spot 's 
gone!  Ye  juist  touched  it,  an'  it's  gone!  Tell 
Hendry." 

Rut  Hendry  did  not  need  to  be  told.  As  Jess 
spoke  I  heard  him  sa\'  huskily:  "Thank  God!" 
and  tlun  he  tottered  back  to  the  kitchen.  When 
the  doctor  left,  Hendry  was  still  on  Jess's  arm- 
chair, trembling  like  a  man    with  the  palsy.     Ten 

45 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

minutes  afterwards  I  was  preparing  for  bed,  when 
he  cried  up  the  stair  — 

"  Come  awa  doon." 

I  joined  the  family  party  in  the  room  :  Hendry 
was  sitting  close  to  Jess. 

"Let  us  read,"  he  said  firmly,  "in  the  four- 
teenth of  John." 


46 


CHAPTER   V. 

A   HUMORIST   ON   HIS    CALLING. 

AF"rER  the  eight  o'clock  bell  had  rung,  Hendry 
occasionallv  crossed  over  to  the  farm  of  T'nowhead 
and  sat  on  the  pig-sty.  If  no  one  joined  him  he 
scratched  the  pig,  and  returned  home  graduall)'. 
Here  what  was  almost  a  club  held  informal  meet- 
ings, at  which  two  or  four,  or  even  half  a  dozen 
assembled  to  debate,  when  there  was  any  one  to 
start  them.  The  meetings  were  only  memorable 
when  Tammas  Haggart  was  in  fettle,  to  pronounce 
judgments  in  his  well-known  sarcastic  wa}'.  Some- 
times we  had  got  off  the  pig-sty  to  separate  before 
Tammas  was  properly  yoked.  There  we  might 
remain  a  long  time,  planted  round  him  like  trees, 
for  he  was  a    mesmerizing  talker. 

There  was  a  ])ail  belonging  to  the  pig-sty  which 
some  one  would  turn  bottom  upwards  and  sit 
upon  if  the  attendance  was  unusuallx'  numerous. 
Tammas   liked,    however,  to    put  a  foot   on  it  now 

47 


A    WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

and  ay;ain  in  the  full  swing  of  a  harangue,  and 
when  he  paused  for  a  sarcasm  I  have  seen  the 
pail  kicked  toward  him.  He  had  the  wave  of 
the  arm  that  is  so  conxincing  in  argument,  and 
such    a    natural  way  of  asking  questions,   that  an 


AT    T'XOWHEAD    PIG-STY. 


audience  not  used  to  public  speaking  might  have 
thought  he  wanted  them  to  reply.  It  is  an  un- 
doubted fact,  that  when  he  went  on  the  platform, 
at  the  time  of  the  election,  to  heckle  the  Colonel, 
he  paused  in  the  middle  of  his  questions  to  take  a 

48 


A   HUMORISr    ON    HIS    CALLING. 

drink  out  of  the  tumbler  of  water  whieh  stood  on 
the  table.  As  soon  as  they  saw  what  he  was  up 
to.  the  spectators  raised  a  riuL^iny;   cheer. 

On  concludini^-  his  perorations,  Tammas  sent 
his  snutt-nuiU  round,  but  we  had  our  own  wa\-  of 
passing  him  a  vote  of  thanks.  One  of  the  com- 
pany would  express  amazement  at  his  gift  of 
words,  and  the  others  would  add,  "  Man,  man," 
or,  "Ye  cow,  Tammas,"  or,  "What  a  crittur  ye 
are!  "  all  which  ejaculations  meant  the  same  thing. 
A  new  subject  being  thus  ingeniously  introduced, 
Tammas  again  put  his  foot  on  the  pail. 

"  I  tak  no  creedit,"  he  said,  modestly,  on  the 
evening,  I  remember,  of  Willie  Pyatt's  funeral, 
"  in  bein'  able  to  speak  wi'  a  sort  o'  faceelity  on 
topics  'at  I  've  made   my  ain." 

*'  Ay,"  said  T'nowhcad,  "  but  it 's  no  the  faceelity 
o'  speakin'  'at  taks  me.  There  's  Davit  Lunan  'at 
can  speak  like  as  if  he  had  learned  it  aff  a  paper, 
an'  yet  I  canna  thole  'im." 

"  Davit,"  said  Hendr\-,  "  doesna  speak  in  a  wy 
'at  a  body  can  follow  'im.  He  doesna  gae  even 
on.  Jess  says  he  's  juist  like  a  man  aye  at  the 
cross-roads,  an'  no  sure  o'  his  w\-.  But  the  stock 
has  words,  an'  no  ilka  body  has  that." 
4  49 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

"  If  I  was  bidden  to  put  Tammas's  gift  in  a 
word,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  I  would  say  'at  he  had 
a  wy.     That 's  what  I  would  say." 

"Weel,  I  suppose  I  have,"  Tammas  admitted, 
"  but  wy  or  no  wy,  I  couldna  put  a  point  on  my 
words  if  it  wasna  for  my  sense  o'  humour.  Lads, 
humour  's  what  gies  the  nip  to  speakin'." 

"It's  what  maks  ye  a  sarcesticist,  Tammas," 
said  Hendr}- ;  "  but  what  I  wonder  at  is  yer  sayin' 
the  humorous  things  sae  aisy  like.  Some  says  ye 
mak  them  up  aforehand,  but  I  ken  that 's  no 
true." 

"  No  only  is  't  no  true,"  said  Tammas,  "  but  it 
couldna  be  true.  Them  'at  says  sic  things,  an',  weel 
I  ken  you  're  meanin'  Davit  Lunan,  hasna  nae  idea 
o'  what  humour  is.  It's  a  thing  'at  spouts  oot  o' 
its  ain  accord.  Some  o'  the  maist  humorous  things 
I  've  ever  said  cam  oot,  as  a  body  may  say,  by 
thcmsels." 

"I  suppose  that's  the  case,"  said  T'nowhead, 
"an'  yet  it  maun  be  you   'at  brings  them   up?" 

"There's  no  nae  doubt aboot  its  bein'  the  case," 
said  Tammas,  "  for  I  've  watched  mysel  often. 
There  was  a  vara  guid  instance  occurred  sune  after 
I  married  Easie,     The  Earl's  son  met  me  one  day, 

50 


A    HUMORIST   ON    HIS   CALLING. 

aboot  that  time,  i'  the  Tenements,  an'  he  didna  ken 
'at  Chirst}-  was  deid.  an'  I  W  married  aL;ain.  '  Well, 
Haesrart,'  he  sa\s,  in  iiis  frank  \v\-,  '  and  how  is 
your  wife?  '  '  She's  \ara  weel,  sir,'  I  maks  answer, 
*  but  she  's  no  the  ane  }'ou  mean.'  " 

"  Na,  he  meant  Chirst)',"  said  Hendr\'. 

"  Is  that  a'  the  story?  "  asked  T'nowhead. 

Tammas  had  been  looking  at  us  queerly. 

"There's  no  nane  o'  ye  lauehin',"  he  said,  "but 
I  can  assure  ye  the  Earl's  son  gaed  east  the  toon 
lauehin'  like  on\'thing." 

"  But  what  was't  he  lauched  at?  " 

"  Ou,"  said  Tammas,  "  a  humorist  doesna  tell 
whaur  the   humour  comes  in." 

"No.  but  when  you  said  that,  did  ye  mean  it  to 
be  humorous?  " 

"  Am  no  savin'  I  did.  but  as  I  've  been  tellin'  ye 
humour  spouts  oot  b\'  itsel." 

"  A\-,  but  do  ye  ken  noo  what  the  Earl's  son 
gaed   awa  lauehin'   at?  " 

Tammas  hesitateil. 

"  I  dinna  e.\actl>-  see  't,"  he  confessed,  "  but  that 's 
no  an  oncommon  thing.  A  humorist  would  often 
no  ken  'at  he  was  ane  if  it  wasna  b\-  the  \\y  he 
maks   other   fowk   lauch.      A  body  canna   be  ex- 

51 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

pcckit    baith    to    niak    the  joke  an'  to  see 't.     Na, 
that   woukl   be  doin'   twa   fowks'  wark." 

"  Week  that 's  reasonable  enough,  but  I  've  often 
seen  ye  lauchin',"  said  Hendr}-,  "  lang  afore  other 
fowk  lauched." 

"  Nae  doubt,"  Tammas  expkiineck  "  an'  that 's 
because  humour  has  twa  sides,  juist  hke  a  penny 
piece.  When  I  sa}'  a  humorous  thing  mysel,  I  'm 
dependent  on  other  fowk  to  tak  note  o'  the 
humour  o't,  bein'  niyscl  taen  up  \vi'  the  makkin 
o't.  A}',  but  there  's  things  I  see  an'  hear  'at  maks 
me  lauch,  an'  that  's  the  other  side  o'  Iiumour." 

"  I  ne\'er  heard  it  put  sae  pkiin  afore,"  said 
T'nowhead,  "  an',  sak  am  no  nane  sure  but  what 
am  a  humorist  too." 

"  Na,  na,  no  you,  T'nowhead,"  said  Tammas, 
hotly. 

"  Week"  continued  the  farmer,  "  I  never  set  up 
for  bein'  a  humorist,  but  I  can  juist  assure  ye 
'at  I  lauch  at  queer  things  too.  No  lang  s}-ne  I 
woke  up  i'  m\'  bed  lauchin'  like  on\'thing,  an' 
Lisbcth  thocht  I  wasna  week  It  was  something 
I  dreamed  'at  made  me  lauch,  I  couldna  think  what 
it  was,  but  I  lauched  richt.  Was  that  no  fell  like 
a  huinorist?" 

52 


A   HUMORIST   ON    HIS    CALLING. 

"  That  was  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Tammas. 
"  Xa.  dreams  dinna  coont,  for  we  're  no  responsible 
for  them.  A\',  an'  what  's  mair,  the  mere  huichin  's 
no  the  important  side  o'  hnmour,  even  thous4ii  ye 
hinna  to  be  teh  to  huieh.  The  important  side's 
the    other  side,    the  sayin'    the   humorous    things. 


ox    T'NOWHKAD    FARM. 


I'll  tell  ve  what:  the  humorist's  like  a  man  firin' 
at  a  target —  he  docsna  ken  whether  he  hits  or  no 
till  them  at  the  target  tells  'im." 

"  I  would  be  of  ojieenion,"  said  Hendry,  who  was 
one  of  Tammas's  most  staunch  admirers,  "  'at 
another    mark   >>'   the   rale   humorist  was   his  seein' 


humour   in   all    thiuiis? 


53 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

Tammas  shook  his  head  —  a  way  he  had  when 
Hendry  advanced  theories. 

"  I  dinna  hand  wi'  that  ava,"  he  said.  "  I  ken 
fine  'at  Davit  Lunan  gaes  aboot  sayin'  he  sees 
humour  in  everything,  but  there  's  nae  surer  sign 
'at  he's  no  a  genuine  humorist.  Na,  the  rale 
humorist  kens  vara  weel  'at  there  's  subjects  with- 
oot  a  spark  o'  humour  in  them.  When  a  sub- 
ject rises  to  the  subhme  it  shoukl  be  regairded 
philosophically,  an'  no  humorously.  Davit  would 
lauch  'at  the  grandest  thochts,  whaur  they  only 
fill  the  true  humorist  wi'  awe.  I  've  found  it 
necessary  to  rebuke  'im  at  times  whaur  his 
lauchin'  was  oot  o'  place.  He  pretended  aince 
on  this  vara  spot  to  see  humour  i'  the  origin  o' 
cock-fightin'." 

"Did  he,  man?"  said  Hendry;  "  I  wasna  here. 
But  what  is  the  origin  o'  cock-fechtin'?  " 

"  It  was  a'  i'  the  Cheap  Maga.oiue,"  said  T'now- 
head. 

"Was  I  sayin'  it  wasna?"  demanded  Tammas. 
"  It  was  through  me  readin'  the  account  oot  o'  the 
Cheap  Magazine  'at  the  discussion  arose." 

"  Rut  what  said  the  CJieapy  was  the  origin  o' 
cock-fechtin'?  " 

54 


A   HUMORIST   ON    HIS    CALLING. 

"T'nowhead  '11  tell  \-e,"  answered  Tammas;  "  he 
says  I  dinna  ken." 

"  I  nexer  said  naething  o"  the  kind,"  returned 
T'nowhead,  indignantly;  "I  mind  o'  ye  readin't 
oot  fine." 

"  Ay,  weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  that  's  a'  richt.  Ou, 
the  origin  o'  cock-fightin'  gangs  back  to  the  time 
o'  the  Greek  wars,  a  thoosand  or  twa  years  syne, 
mair  or  less.  There  was  ane,  Miltiades  by 
name,  'at  was  the  captain  o'  the  Greek  arm\',  an' 
one  day  he  led  them  doon  the  mountains  to 
attack  the  biggest  army  'at  w^as  ever  gathered 
thegither." 

"  The\-  were  Persians,"  interposed  T'nowhead. 

"  Are  you  tellin'  the  story,  or  am  I  ?  "  asked 
Tammas.  "  I  kent  fine  'at  they  were  Persians. 
Weel,  Miltiades  had  the  matter  o'  tw^enty  thoosand 
men  wi'  'im,  and  when  they  got  to  the  foot  o'  the 
mountain,  behold  there  was  two  cocks  fechtin'." 

"  Alan,  man,"  said  Hendry,  "  an'  was  there  cocks 
m  thae  da}-s?  " 

"  Ondoubtedl}',"  said  Tammas,  "  or  hoo  coultl 
thae  twa   hac   been   fechtin'?" 

"  ^\'  have  me  there,  Tammas,"  admitted  Hendry. 
"  Ye  're  perfectly  richt." 

55 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

"  Ay,  then,"  continued  the  stone-breaker,  "  when 
Miltiades  saw  the  cocks  at  it  wi'  all  their  micht, 
he  stopped  the  arm}'  and  addressed  it.  '  Behold  ! 
he  cried,  at  the  top  o'  his  voice,  '  these  cocks  do 
not  fight  for  their  household  gods,  nor  for  the 
monuments  of  their  ancestors,  nor  for  glor}',  nor 
for  libert)'.  nor  for  their  children,  but  onl\'  because 
the  one  will  not  gi\'e  way  unto  the  other.'  " 

"  It  was  nobly  said,"  declared  Hendry  ;  "  na, 
cocks  wouldna  hae  sae  muckle  understandin'  as  to 
fecht  for  thae  things.  I  wouldna  wonder  but  what 
it  was  some  laddies  'at  set  them  at  ane  another." 

"  Hendry  doesna  see  what  Miltydes  was  after," 
said  T'nowhead. 

"  Ye 've  tacn 't  up  wrang,  Hendry,"  Tammas 
explained.  "What  Miltiades  meant  was  'at  if 
cocks  could  fecht  sae  weel  oot  o'  mere  deviltr\-, 
surely  the  Greeks  would  fecht  terrible  for  their 
gods  an'  their  bairns  an'  the  other  things." 

"  I  see,  I  see  ;  but  what  was  the  monuments  o' 
their  ancestors?  " 

"  Ou,  that  was  the  gravestanes  they  put  up  i' 
their  kirkyards." 

"  I  wonder  the  other  billies  would  want  to  tak 
them  awa.     They  would  be  a  michty  wecht." 

56 


A    HUMORIST    ON    HIS    CALLING. 

"  A\-,  but  they  wanted  them,  an'  nat'rally  the 
Greeks  stuck  to  the  stanes  they  paid   for." 

"  So,  so,  an'  did  Da\it  Lunan  mak  oot  'at  there 
was  humour  in  that?  " 

"  He  do  so.  He  said  it  was  a  humorous  tiling 
to  think  o'  a  hale  arm\'  lookin'  on  at  twa  cocks 
fechtin'.  I  assure  \'e  I  tclt  "im  'at  I  saw  nae 
humour  in 't.  It  was  ane  o'  the  most  impressive 
sichts  ever  seen  b)-  man,  an'  the  Greeks  was  sae 
inspired  by  what  Miltiades  said  'at  they  sweepit 
the  Persians  oot  o'   their  country." 

We  all  agreed  that  Tammas's  was  the  genuine 
humour. 

"  An'  an  enviable  possession  it  is,"  said  Hendry. 

"  In   a  wy,"   admitted  Tammas,  "  but   no   in    a' 

J) 
wys. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  added  in  a  low  voice  — 

"  As  sure  as  death,   Hendry,  it  sometimes  taks 

grip  o'  me  i'  the  kirk  itsel,  an'  I   can  hardly  keep 

frae  lauchin'." 


.S7 


CHAPTER  VL 

DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS. 

In  the  lustiness  of  youth  there  are  many  who 
cannot  feel  that  they,  too,  will  die.  The  first 
fear  stops  the  heart.  Even  then  they  would  keep 
death  at  arm's  len<7th  bv^  makino;  believe  to  dis- 
own  him.  Eoved  ones  are  taken  away,  and  the 
boy,  the  girl,  will  not  speak  of  them,  as  if  that 
made  the  conqueror's  triumph  the  less.  In  time 
the  fire  in  the  breast  burns  low,  and  then  in  the 
last  glow  of  the  embers,  it  is  sweeter  to  hold  to 
what  has  been  than  to  think  of  what  ma\-  be. 

Twenty  years  had  passed  since  Joey  ran  down 
the  brae  to  play.  Jess,  his  mother,  shook  her 
staff  fondh'  at  him.  A  cart  rumbled  by,  the 
driver  nodding  on  the  shaft.  It  rounded  the 
corner  and  stopped  suddenly,  and  then  a  woman 
screamed.  A  handful  of  men  carried  Joey's  dead 
body  to  his  mother,  and  that  was  the  tratjedx'  of 
Jess's  life. 

58 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS. 

T\vcnt\-  years  a<7o,  and  still  Toss  sat  at  the 
wiiulow.  antl  still  she  heard  that  woman  scream. 
Ever}'    otlK'r    li\in!^    beinsj;     had    forgotten    Joey; 


isif 


c;()iN(i  j)i)\v.\    iiii:  i!RAE. 


even  to  Hendry  lie  was  now  scarcely  a  name,  but 
tlnre  were  times  when  Jess's  face  cjuixered  and 
her  old  arms  went  out  for  her  dead   boy. 

59 


A  WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  God's  will  be  done,"  she  said,  "  but  oh,  I 
grudged  Him  my  bairn  terrible  sair.  I  dinna 
want  him  back  noo,  an'  ilka  day  is  takkin  me 
nearer  to  him,  but  for  mony  a  lang  year  I  grudged 
him  sair,  sair.  He  was  juist  five  minutes  gone,  an' 
they  brocht  him  back  deid,  my  Joey." 

On  the  Sabbath  day  Jess  could  not  go  to 
church,  and  it  was  then,  I  think,  that  she  was  with 
Joey  most.  There  was  often  a  blessed  serenity  on 
her  face  when  we  returned,  that  onl}'  comes  to 
those  who  have  risen  from  their  knees  with  their 
prayers  answered.  Then  she  was  very  close  to  the 
boy  who  died.  Long  ago  she  could  not  look  out 
from  her  window  upon  the  brae,  but  now  it  was 
her  seat  in  church.  There  on  the  Sabbath  even- 
ings she  sometimes  talked  to   me  of  Joey. 

"It's  been  a  fine  day,"  she  would  say,  "juist 
like  that  day.  I  thank  the  Lord  for  the  sunshine 
noo,  but  oh,  I  thocht  at  the  time  I  couldna  look  at 
the  sun  shinin'  again." 

"  In  all  Thrums,"  she  has  told  me.  and  I  know 
it  to  be  true,  "  there 's  no  a  better  man  than 
Hendry.  There  's  them  'at 's  cleverer  in  the  wys 
o'  the  world,  but  my  man,  Hendry  McQumpha, 
never  did  naething  in   all   his  life   'at   wasna   weel 

60 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS. 

intended,  an'  thouL^h  his  words  is  common,  it's 
to  the  Lord  he  looks.  I  canna  tliink  but  wliat 
Hcndr}- 's  pleasin'  to  God.  (^h,  I  thnna  ken  what 
to  sa}'  wi'  thankfiihiess  to  Him  when  I  mind 
hoc  euid  He  's  been  to  me.  There  's  Leeb\'  'at  I 
couldna  hae  done  withoot,  me  bein'  sae  silly  (weak 
bodily),  an'  a}'e  Leeby 's  stuck  by  me  an'  gien  up 
her  life,   as  ye  micht  say,  for  me.     Jamie  — " 

But  then  Jess  sometimes  broke  down. 

"  He  's  so  far  awa."  she  said,  after  a  time,  "  an' 
a\'e  when  he  gangs  back  to  London  after  his  holi- 
da\'s  he  has  a  fear  he  '11  never  see  me  again,  but 
he  's  terrified  to  mention  it,  an'  I  juist  ken  b\-  the 
wy  he  taks  hand  o'  me,  an'  comes  runnin'  back  to 
tak  hand  o'  me  again.  I  ken  fine  what  he 's 
thinkin',   but  I   daurna  s]")eak. 

"Guid  is  no  word  for  what  Jamie  has  been  to 
me,  but  he  wasna  born  till  after  Joe\'  died.  When 
we  got  Jamie,  Hendr}-  took  to  whistlin'  again  at 
the  loom,  an'  Jamie  juist  filled  Joey's  place  to 
him.  A)',  but  naebody  could  fill  Joe\-'s  place  to 
me.  It 's  different  to  a  man.  A  bairn's  no  the 
same  to  him,  but  a  fell  bit  o'  me  was  buried  in  my 
ladtlie's  grave. 

"Jamie    an'    Joey    was    never    nane    the    same 

6r 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

nature.  It  was  aye  something  in  a  shop,  Jamie 
wanted  to  be,  an'  he  never  cared  niuckle  for  his 
books,  but  J()e\-  hankered  after  being  a  minister, 
young  as  he  was,  an'  a  minister  Hendry  an'  me 
would  hae  done  our  best  to  mak  him.  Mony, 
mony  a  time  after  he  came  in  frae  the  kirk  on 
the  Sabbath  he  would  stanil  up  at  this  very 
window  and  wave  his  hands  in  a  reverent  way, 
juist  like  the  minister.  His  first  text  was  to  be, 
'  Thou  God  seest   me.' 

"  Ye  '11  wonder  at  me,  but  I  've  sat  here  in  the 
lang  fore-nichts  dreamin'  'at  Joey  was  a  grown  man 
noo,  an'  'at  I  was  initlin'  on  m\'  bonnet  to  come 
to  the  kirk  to  hear  him  preach.  Even  as  far  back 
as  twenty  years  an'  mair  I  wasna  able  to  gang 
aboot,  but  Joey  would  say  to  me,  '  We  '11  get  a 
carriage  to  ye,  mother,  so  'at  ye  can  come  and 
hear  me  preach  on  "  Thou  God  seest  me."'  He 
would  say  to  me,  '  It  doesna  do,  mother,  for  the 
minister  in  the  pulpit  to  nod  to  ony  o'  the  fowk, 
but  I  '11  gie  ye  a  look  an'  ye  '11  ken  it's  me.'  Oh, 
Joey,  I  would  hae  gien  you  a  look  too,  an'  ye 
would  hae  kcnt  what  I  was  thinkin'.  He  often 
said,  '  Ye  '11  be  proud  o'  me,  will  ye  no,  mother, 
when  ye  see  me  comin'  sailin'  alang  to  the  pulpit 

62 


THRUMS. 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS. 

in  ni}'  gown?'  So  I  would  hac  been  proud  o* 
him,  an'  I  was  proud  to  hear  him  speakin'  o't. 
'The  other  fowk,'  he  said,  'will  be  sittin'  in  their 
seats  wonderin'  what  ni}-  text 's  to  be,  but  nou  '11 
ken,  mother,  an'  you'll  turn  up  to  "Thou  God 
seest  me,"  afore  I  gie  oot  the  chapter.'  A\-,  but 
that  da}-  he  was  coffined,  for  all  the  minister 
prayed,  I  found  it  hard  to  sa}',  '  Thou  God  seest 
me.'  It's  the  text  I  like  best  noo,  though,  an'  when 
Hendry  an'  Leeby  is  at  the  kirk,  I  turn  't  up  often, 
often  in  the  Bible.  I  read  frae  the  beginnin'  o' 
the  chapter,  but  when  I  come  to  '  Thou  God  seest 
me,'  I  stop.  Na,  it 's  no  'at  there  's  ony  rebellion 
to  the  Lord  in  m\'  heart  noo,  for  I  ken  He  was 
lookin'  doon  when  the  cart  gaed  ower  Joey,  an' 
He  wanted  to  tak  my  laddie  to  Himsel.  lint  juist 
when  I  come  to  '  Thou  God  seest  me,'  I  let  the 
Book  lie  in  my  lap,  for  aince  a  body's  sure  o' 
that  they  're  sure  o'  all.  A}%  ye  '11  laugh,  but  I 
think,  mcbbc  juist  because  I  was  his  mother,  'at 
though  Joey  ncv^cr  lived  to  preach  in  a  kirk, 
he 's  preached  frae  '  Thou  God  seest  me '  to 
me.  I  dinna  ken  'at  I  would  ever  hae  been  sac 
sure  o'  that  if  it  hadna  been  for  him,  an'  so  I 
think  I  see  'im  sailin'  doon  to  the  pulj)it  juist 
5  65 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

as  he  said  he  would  do.  I  seen  him  gicn  me 
the  look  he  spoke  o'  —  ay,  he  looks  my  wy  first, 
an'  I  ken  it 's  him.  Naebody  sees  him  but  me,  but 
I  see  him  gien  me  the  look  he  promised.  He 's 
so  terrible  near  me,  an'  him  dead,  'at  when  my 
time  comes  I  '11  be  rale  willin'  to  go.  I  dinna  say 
that  to  Jamie,  because  he  all  trembles;  but  I'm 
auld  noo,  an'  I  'm  no  nane  loth  to  gang." 

Jess's  staff  probably  had  a  history  before  it 
became  hers,  for,  as  known  to  me,  it  was  always 
old  and  black.  If  we  studied  them  sufficiently  we 
might  discover  that  staves  age  perceptibly  just  as 
the  hair  turns  grey.  At  the  risk  of  being  thought 
fanciful  I  dare  to  say  that  in  inanimate  objects,  as 
in  ourselves,  there  is  honourable  and  shameful 
old  age,  and  that  to  me  Jess's  staff  was  a  symbol 
of  the  good,  the  true.  It  rested  against  her  in  the 
window,  and  she  was  so  helpless  without  it  when 
on  her  feet,  that  to  those  who  saw  much  of  her  it 
was  part  of  herself  The  staff  was  very  short,  nearly 
a  foot  having  been  cut,  as  I  think  she  once  told 
me  herself,  from  the  original,  of  which  to  make  a 
porridge  thieval,  and  in  moving  Jess  leant  heavily 
on  it.  Had  she  stood  erect  it  would  not  have 
touched    the   floor.     This  was   the   staff  that  Jess 

66 


H 

X 

w 

r 
o 
o 


DEAD   THIS    TWENTY   YEARS. 

shook  so  jo}-rull\-  at  her  bo)-  the  forenoon  in  May 
when  he  ran  out  to  his  death.  Joc\',  however,  was 
associated  in  Jess's  memory  with  her  staff  in  less 
painful  wa}'s.  When  she  spoke  of  him  she  took 
the  dw  arf  of  a  staff  in  her  hands  and  looked  at  it 
softly. 

"  It 's  hard  to  me,"  she  would  say,  "  to  believe 
'at  twa  an'  twenty  )'cars  hae  come  and  gone  since 
the  nicht  Joe)-  hod  (hid)  my  staff.  Ay,  but  Hendry 
was  straucht  in  thae  da\-s  b\'  what  he  is  noo,  an' 
Jamie  wasna  born.  Twa  an'  twenty  years  come 
the  back  end  o'  the  )-ear,  an'  it  wasna  thocht  'at  I 
could  li\'e  through  the  winter.  '  Ye '11  no  last  mair 
than  anither  month,  Jess,'  was  what  my  sister  Bell 
said,  when  she  came  to  see  me,  and  yet  here  I  am 
ave  sittin'  at  m\'  window,  an'  Bell's  been  i'  the 
kirk}'ard  this  dozen  years. 

"  Leeb\-  was  saxteen  month  }-ounger  than  Joey, 
an'  mair  quiet  like.  Her  heart  was  juist  set  on 
helpin'  aboot  the  hoose,  an'  though  she  was  but 
fower  \-car  auld  she  could  kindle  the  fire  an'  red 
up  (clean  up)  the  room.  Leeby's  been  ni}'  savin' 
ever  since  she  was  fower  year  auld.  A}-,  hut  it  was 
Joey  'at  hung  aboot  me  maist,  an'  he  took  notice 
'at  I  wasna  gaen  out  as  I  used  to  do.      Since  sune 

69 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

after  my  marriage  I  've  needed  the  stick,  but  there 
was  days  'at  I  could  gang  across  the  road  an'  sit  on 
a  stane.  Joey  kent  there  was  something  wrang 
when  I  had  to  gie  that  up,  an'  syne  he  noticed 
'at  I  could na  even  gang  to  the  window  unless 
Hendry  kind  o'  carried  me.  Na,  ye  wouldna 
think  'at  there  could  hae  been  days  when  Hendry 
did  that,  but  he  did.  He  was  a  sort  o'  ashamed  if 
ony  o'  the  neighbours  saw  him  so  affectionate  like, 
but  he  was  terrible  taen  up  aboot  me.  His  loom 
was  doon  at  T'nowhead's  Bell's  father's,  an'  often 
he  cam  awa  up  to  see  if  I  w^as  ony  better.  He 
didna  lat  on  to  the  other  weavers  'at  he  was 
comin'  to  see  what  like  I  was.  Na,  he  juist  said 
he  'd  forgotten  a  pirn,  or  his  cruizey  lamp,  or 
onything.  Ah,  but  he  didna  mak  nae  pretence 
o'  no  carin'  for  me  aince  he  was  inside  the  hoose. 
He  came  crawlin'  to  the  bed  no  to  wauken  me  if 
I  was  sleepin',  an'  mony  a  time  I  made  belief  'at  I 
was,  juist  to  please  him.  It  was  an  awfu'  business 
on  him  to  hae  a  young  wife  sae  helpless,  but  he 
wasna  the  man  to  cast  that  at  me.  I  mind  o' 
sayin'  to  him  one  day  in  my  bed,  '  Ye  made  a 
poor  bargain,  Hendry,  when  ye  took  me.'  But 
he  says,  '  Not  one  soul  in  Thrums  '11  daur  say  that 

70 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY    YEARS. 

to  me  but  yersel,  Jess.  Na,  na,  ni}'  dawty,  you  're 
the  wunian  o'  ni\-  choice;  there  's  juist  one  wiunan 
i'  tlie  warld  to  nie,  an'  that  's  }-ou,  my  ain  Jess.' 
Twa  an'  twent)"  }-ears  s\'ne.  Ay,  Hendry  called 
me  fond  like  names,  thae  no  everyday  names. 
What    a    straucht    man    he   was ! 

"The  doctor  had  said  he  could  do  no  more  for 
me,  an'  Hendry  was  the  only  ane  'at  didna  gie  me 
up.  The  bairns,  of  course,  didna  understan',  and 
Joey  would  come  into  the  bed  an'  play  on  the  top 
o'  me.  Hendry  would  hae  taen  him  awa,  but  I 
liked  to  hae  'im.  Ye  see,  we  was  lang  married  afore 
we  had  a  bairn,  an'  thouL^h  I  couldna  bear  ony 
other  weight  on  me,  Joey  didna  hurt  me,  somehoo. 
I  liked  to  hae  'im  so  close  to  me. 

"  It  was  through  that  'at  he  came  to  bur\-  my 
staff.  I  couldna  help  often  thinkin'  o'  what  like 
the  hoose  would  be  when  I  was  gone,  an'  aboot 
Leeb}'  an'  Joey  left  so  }'oung.  So,  when  I  could 
say  it  without  greetin',  I  said  to  Joey  'at  I  was 
goin'  far  awa,  an'  would  he  be  a  terrible  guid 
laddie  t(j  his  father  and  Leeby  when  I  was  gone? 
He  aye  juist  said,  '  Dinna  gang,  mother,  dinna 
gang;  '  but  one  day  Hendry  came  in  frae  his  loom, 
and  sa\'s  Joey,   '  Father,  whaur  's  my  mother  gaen 

71 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

to,  awa  frae  lis?  '  I  '11  never  forget  Hendry's  face. 
His  niootb  juist  opened  an'  shut  twa  or  three  times, 
an'  he  walked  quick  ben  to  the  room.  I  cried  oot 
to  him  to  come  back,  but  he  didna  come,  so  I  sent 
Joey  for  him.  Joey  came  runnin'  back  to  me 
sayin',  '  Mother,  mother,  am  awfu'  field,  for  my 
father's  greetin'  sair.' 

"  A'  thae  things  took  a  baud  o'  Joe}',  an'  he 
ended  in  gien  us  a  fleg.  I  was  sleepin'  ill  at  the 
time,  an'  Hendr\'  was  ben  sleepin'  in  the  room  wi' 
Lecb}',  Joey  bein'  wi'  me.  A}',  weel,  one  nicht  I 
woke  up  in  the  dark  an'  put  oot  ni}'  hand  to  'im, 
an'  he  wasna  there.  I  sat  up  wi'  a  terrible  start, 
an'  s}'ne  I  kent  by  the  cauld  'at  the  door  maun  be 
open.  I  cried  oot  quick  to  Hendr}-,  but  he  was  a 
soond  sleeper,  an'  he  didna  hear  me.  A)-,  I  dinna 
ken  hoo  I  did  it,  but  I  got  ben  to  the  room  an' 
shook  him  up.  I  was  near  daft  wi'  fear  when  I  saw 
Leeb}'  wasna  there  either.  Hendry  couldna  tak  it  in 
a'  at  aince,  but  sune  he  had  his  trousers  on,  an'  he 
made  me  lie  down  on  his  bed.  He  said  he  wouldna 
move  till  I  did  it,  or  I  wouldna  hae  dune  it.  As 
sune  as  he  was  oot  o'  the  hoose  crying  their  names 
I  sat  up  ui  my  bed  listcnin'.  Sune  I  heard  speakin', 
an'   in   a   minute   Leeby   comes   runnin'   in   to    mc, 

72 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY    YEARS. 

roarin'  an'  grcctin'.  She  was  barefeeted,  and  liad 
juist  her  nichtgown  on,  an'  her  teeth  was  chatterin'. 
I  took  her  into  the  bed,  but  it  was  an  hour  afore 
she  could  tell  nie  on)'thing,  she  was  in  sic  a  state. 

"  Sune  after  Hendry  came  in  carryin'  Joey. 
Joe\'  was  as  naked  as  Leeb}',  and  as  cauld  as  lead, 
but  he  wasna  greetin'.  Instead  o'  that  he  was 
awfu'  satisfied  like,  and  for  all  Hendry  threatened 
to  lick  him  he  wouldna  tell  what  he  an'  Leeby  had 
been  doin'.  He  says,  though,  says  he,  '  Ye  '11  no 
gang  awa  noo,  mother;  no,  ye '11  bide  noo.'  My 
bonny  laddie,  I  didna  fathom  him  at  the  time. 

"It  was  Leeby  'at  I  got  it  frae.  Ye  see,  Joey 
had  never  seen  me  gaen  ony  gait  withoot  my  staff, 
an'  he  thocht  if  he  hod  it  I  wouldna  be  able  to  gang 
awa.  A}-,  he  planned  it  all  oot,  though  he  was  but 
a  bairn,  an'  lay  watchin'  me  in  m)'  bed  till  I  fell 
asleep.  Syne  he  creepit  oot  o'  the  bed,  an'  got 
the  staff,  and  gaed  ben  for  Leeby.  She  was  fleid, 
but  he  said  it  was  the  onl\'  wy  to  mak  me  'at  I 
couldna  gang  awa.  It  was  juist  ower  there  whaur 
thae  cabbages  is  'at  he  dug  the  hole  wi'  a  spade,  an' 
buried  the  staff.     Hendr)'  dug  it  up  next  mornin'." 


73 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   STATEMENT   OF   TIBBIE   BIRSE. 

On  a  Thursday  Pete  Lownie  was  buried,  and  when 
Hendry  returned  from  the  funeral  Jess  asked  if 
Davit  Lunan  had  been  there. 

"  Na,"  said  Hendry,  who  was  shut  up  in  the 
closet-bed,  taking  off  his  blacks,  "  I  heard  tell  he 
wasna  bidden." 

"  Yea,  yea,"  said  Jess,  nodding  to  me  signifi- 
cantly. "Ay,  weel,"  she  added,  "we'll  be  haen 
Tibbie  owcr  here  on  Saturday  to  deve  's  (weary  us) 
to  death  aboot  it." 

Tibbie,  Davit's  wife,  was  sister  to  Marget,  Pete's 
widow,  and  she  generally  did  visit  Jess  on  Saturday 
night  to  talk  about  Marget,  who  was  fast  becoming 
one  of  the  most  fashionable  persons  in  Thrums, 
Tibbie  was  hopelessly  plebeian.  She  was  none  of 
your  proud  kind,  and  if  I  entered  the  kitchen  when 
she  was  there  she  pretended  not  to  see  me,  so  that, 
if  I  chose,  I  might  escape  without  speaking  to  the 

74 


THE   STATEMENT   OF   TIBBIE    BIRSE. 

like  of  her.     I  always  grabbed  her  hand,  however, 
in  a  frank  wa\'. 

On  Saturday  Tibbie  made  her  appearance. 
From  the  rapidity  of  her  walk,  and  the  way  she 
was  sucking  in  her  mouth,  I  knew  that  she  had 
strange  things  to  unfold.  She  had  pinned  a  grey 
shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and  wore  a  black  mutch 
over  her  dangling  grey  curls. 

"  It 's  you,  Tibbie,"  I  heard  Jess  say,  as  the  door 
opened. 

Tibbie  did  not  knock,  not  considering  herself 
grand  enough  for  ceremony,  and  indeed  Jess  would 
have  resented  her  knocking.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  Leeby  visited  Tibbie,  she  knocked  as  politely 
as  if  she  were  collecting  for  the  precentor's  present. 
All  this  showed  that  we  were  superior  socially  to 
Tibbie. 

"  Ay,  hoo  are  ye,  Jess?  "  Tibbie  said. 

"  Muckle  aboot  it,"  answered  Jess;  "  juist  aff  an' 
on;  ay,  an'  hoo  hae  ye  been  yersel?  " 

"  Ou,"  said  Tibbie. 

T  wish  I  could  write  "  ou  "  as  Tibbie  said  it. 
With  her  it  was  usually  a  sentence  in  itself 
Sometimes  it  was  a  mere  bark,  again  it  expressed 
indignation,  surprise,  rapture ;   it  might  be  a  check 

75 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

upon  emotion  or  a  way  of  leading  up  to  it,  and 
often  it  lasted  for  half  a  minute.  In  this  instance 
it  was,  I  should  say,  an  intimation  that  if  Jess  was 
ready  Tibbie  would  begin. 

"  So  Pete  Lownie  's  gone,"  said  Jess,  whom  I 
could  not  see  from  ben  the  house.  I  had  a  good 
glimpse  of  Tibbie,  however,  through  the  open 
doorways.  She  had  the  arm-chair  on  tlie  south 
side,  as  she  would  have  said,  of  the  fireplace. 

"  He  's  awa,"  assented  Tibbie,  primly. 

I  heard  the  lid  of  the  kettle  dancing,  and  then 
came  a  prolonged  "  ou."  Tibbie  bent  forward  to 
whisper,  and  if  she  had  anything  terrible  to  tell  I 
was  glad  of  that,  for  when  she  whispered  I  heard 
her  best.  For  a  time  onl\'  a  murmur  of  words 
reached  me,  distant  music  with  an  "  ou  "  now  and 
again  that  fired  Tibbie  as  the  beating  of  his  drum 
may  rouse  the  martial  spirit  of  a  drmnmer.  At 
last  our  visitor  broke  into  an  agitated  whisper,  and 
it  was  only  when  she  stopped  whispering,  as  she 
did  now  and  again,  that  I  ceased  to  hear  her.  Jess 
evidently  put  a  question  at  times,  but  so  politely 
(for  she  had  on  her  best  wrapper)  that  I  did  not 
catch  a  word. 

"  Though  I   should   be   struck  deid    this   nicht," 

76 


TI15HIIi   lURSE. 


THE    STATEMENT   OF   TIBBIE    BIRSPl 

Tibbie  whispered,  and  the  sibihints  hissed  between 
her  few  rcniainiiiL;-  teeth,  "  I  wasna  sae  muckle  as 
speired  to  the  la}in'  oot.  There  was  Mysy  Cruick- 
shanks  there,  an'  Kitt}'  W'obster  'at  was  nae  friends 
to  the  corpse  to  speak  o',  but  Marget  passed  by 
me,  me  'at  is  her  ain  flesh  an'  blood,  though  it 
mayna  be  for  tlie  hke  o'  me  to  say  it.  It  's  gospel 
truth,  Jess,  I  tell  ye,  when  I  say  'at,  for  all  I  ken 
officially,  as  ye  micht  say,  Pete  Lownie  may  be 
weel  and  hearty  this  day.  If  I  was  to  meet 
Marget  in  the  face  I  couldna  say  he  was  deid, 
though  I  ken  'at  the  wricht  coffined  him  ;  na,  an' 
what's  mair,  I  wouldna  gie  Marget  the  satisfac- 
tion o'  hearin'  me  say  it.  No,  Jess,  I  tell  ye,  I 
dinna  pertend  to  be  on  an  equalty  wi'  Marget,  but 
equalty  or  no  equalty,  a  body  has  her  feelings,  an' 
lat  on  'at  I  ken  Pete  's  gone  I  will  not.  Eh?  Ou, 
weel.   .    .  . 

"  Na  faags  a ;  na,  na.  I  ken  my  place  better 
than  to  gang  near  Marget.  I  dinna  deny  'at  she  's 
grand  by  me,  an'  her  keeps  a  bakchoose  o'  her  ain, 
an'  glad  am  I  ti)  see  her  doin'  sae  weel,  but  let 
me  tell  }'e  this,  Jess,  '  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall.' 
Yes,  it  does,  it's  Scripture;  ay,  it's  nae  mak-up  o' 
mine,  it  's  Scripture.     And  this   I  will  say,  though 

79 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

kennin'  my  place,  'at  Davit  Lunaii  is  as  dainty  a 

man  as  is  in  Thrums,  an'  there  's  no  one  'at 's  better 

behaved   at   a   bural,   being    particularly   wise-like 

in  's   blacks,   an'   them   spleet   new.     Na,   na,  Jess, 

Davit  may  hae  his  faults  an'  tak  a  dram  at  times 

like   anither,   but   he   would   shame   naebody  at   a 

bural,   an'   Marget  deleeberately  insulted   him,   no 

speirin'    him    to    Pete's.     What 's   mair,   when    the 

minister  cried  in  to  see   me   yesterday,  an'  me  on 

the  floor  washin',  says  he,  '  So  Marget 's  lost  her 

man,'  an'   I   said,   '  Say  ye  so,  na?  '  for  let  on  'at  I 

kent,  an'   neither  me  at  the    layin'   oot  nor  Davit 

Lunan  at  the  funeral,  I  would  not. 

"  '  David   should   hae  gone  to   the  funeral,'  says 

/\  the  minister,  '  for  I   doubt  not  he  was  only  omitted 

\  in  the  invitations  by  a  mistake.' 

\  "Ay,  it  was  weel  meant,  but  says  I,  Jess,  says  I, 

V,  '  As  lang  as  am  livin'  to  tak  chairge  o'  'im.  Davit 

Lunan  gangs  to  nae   burals  'at  he  's  no  bidden  to. 

An'  I  tell  ye,'  I   says  to  the  minister,  '  if  there  was 

one  body  'at  had  a  richt  to  be  at  the  bural  o'  Pete 

Lownie,  it  was  Davit  Lunan,  him  bein'  my  man  an' 

Marget  my  ain  sister.     Yes,'  says  I, '  though  am  no 

o'  the  boastin'  kind,  Davit    had   maist  richt  to  be 

there  next  to  Pete  'imsel.'     Ou,  Jess.  .  ,  . 

80 


THE   STATEMENT   OF    TIBBIE    BIRSE. 

"  This  is  no  a  niaiter  I  like  to  speak  aboot ;  na, 
I  dinna  care  to  mention  it,  but  the  neighbours  is 
nat'rall}'  tacn  up  aboot  it,  and  Chirsty  Tosh  was 
sa}in'  what  I  would  wager  'at  ]\Iarget  hadna  sent  the 
minister  to  hint  'at  Davit's  bein'  over-lookit  in  the 
invitations  was  juist  an  accident?  Losh,  losh,  Jess, 
to  think  'at  a  woman  could  hae  the  michty  assur- 
ance to  mak  a  tool  o'  the  very  minister !  But,  sal, 
as  far  as  that  gangs,  Marget  would  do  it,  an'  gae 
twice  to  the  kirk  next  Sabbath,  too;  but  if  she 
thinks  she  's  to  get  ow^er  me  like  that,  she  taks  me 
for  a  bigger  fule  than  I  tak  her  for.  Na,  na,  Marget, 
ye  dinna  draw  my  leg.     Ou,  no.   .   .  . 

"  Mind  ye,  Jess,  I  hae  no  desire  to  be  friends  wi' 
Marget.  Naething  could  be  farrer  frae  my  wish 
than  to  hae  helpit  in  the  layin'  oot  o'  Pete  Lownie, 
an',  I  assure  ye,  Davit  wasna  keen  to  gang  to  the 
bural.  '  If  they  dinna  want  me  to  their  burals,' 
Davit  says,  '  they  hae  nae  mair  to  do  than  to  say 
sac.  But  I  warn  }'e,  Tibbie,'  he  says,  '  if  there  's  a 
bural  frae  this  hoosc,  be  it  your  bural,  or  be  it  my 
l)ural,  not  one  o'  the  family  o'  Lownies  casts  their 
shadows  u[)on  the  corp.'  Thae  was  the  very  words 
Da\it  said  to  me  as  we  watched  the  hearse  frae  the 
sky-licht.  Ay,  he  bore  up  wonderfu',  but  he  felt 
6  8i 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

it,  Jess  —  he  felt  it,  as  I  could  tell  by  his   takkin  to 
drink  again  that  very  nicht.     Jess,  Jess.   .   .   . 

"  Marget 's  getting  waur  an'  waur?  Ay,  ye 
may  say  so,  though  I  '11  say  naething  agin  her 
mysel.  Of  coorse  am  no  on  equalty  wi'  her, 
especially  since  she  had  the  bell  put  up  in  her 
hoose.  Ou,  I  hinna  seen  it  mysel,  na,  I  never 
gang  near  the  hoose,  an',  as  mony  a  body  can 
tell  ye,  when  I  do  hae  to  gang  that  wy  I  mak 
my  feet  my  friend.  Ay,  but  as  I  was  sayin', 
Marget  's  sae  grand  noo  'at  she  has  a  bell  in 
the  hoose.  As  I  understan',  there's  a  rope  in 
the  wast  room,  an'  when  ye  pu'  it  a  bell  rings 
in  the  east  room.  Weel,  when  Marget  has  com- 
pany at  their  tea  in  the  wast  room,  an'  they 
need  mair  watter  or  scones  or  onything,  she  rises 
an'  rings  the  bell.  Syne  Jean,  the  auldest  lassie, 
gets  up  frae  the  table  an'  lifts  the  jug  or  the 
plates  an'  gaes  awa  ben  to  the  east  room  for 
what's  wanted.  Ay,  it's  a  wy  o'  doin'  'at 's  juist 
like  the  gentry,  but  I  '11  tell  ye,  Jess,  Pete  juist 
fair  hated  the  soond  o'  that  bell,  an'  there  's  them 
'at  says  it  was  the  death  o'  'im.  To  think  o' 
Marget  haen  sic  an  establishment !   .   .   . 

"  Na,  I  hinna  seen  the  mournin',  I  've  heard  o't. 

82 


THE   STATEMENT   OF   TIBBIE   BIRSE. 

Na,  if  IVIarget  doesna  tell  me  naething,  am  no 
the  kind  to  spcir  naething,  an'  though  I  'U  be  at 
the  kirk  the  morn,  I  winna  turn  my  hcid  to  look 
at  the  mournin'.  But  it's  fac  as  death  I  ken  frae 
Janet  McOuhatty  'at  the  bonnet 's  a'  crape,  an' 
three  yairds  o'  crape  on  the  dress,  the  wliich 
Marget  calls  a  costume.  .  .  .  Ay,  I  wouldna  won- 
der but  what  it  was  hale  watter  the  morn,  for  it 
looks  micht\"  like  rain,  an'  if  it  is  it'll  serve 
Marget  richt,  an'  mebbe  bring  doon  her  pride  a 
wee.  No  'at  I  want  to  see  her  humbled,  for,  in 
coorse,  she 's  grand  by  the  like  o'  mc.  Ou, 
but  .  .  ." 


83 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

A   CLOAK   WITH   BEADS. 

On  weekdays  the  women  who  passed  the  win- 
dow were  meagrely  dressed  ;  mothers  in  draggled 
winsey  gowns,  carrying  infants  that  were  armfuls 
of  grandeur.  The  Sabbath  clothed  every  one  in 
her  best,  and  then  the  women  went  by  with  their 
hands  spread  out.  When  I  was  with  Hendry 
cloaks  with  beads  were  the  fashion,  and  Jess 
sighed  as  she  looked  at  them.  They  were  known 
in  Thrums  as  the  Eleven  and  a  Bits  (threepenny 
bits),  that  being  their  price  at  Kyowowy's  in  the 
square.  Kyowowy  means  finicky,  and  applied  to 
the  draper  by  general  consent.  No  doubt  it  was 
very  characteristic  to  call  the  cloaks  by  their 
market  value.  In  the  glen  ni}'  scholars  still  talk 
of  their  school-books  as  the  tupenn\',  the  fower- 
penny,  the  saxpenny.  They  finish  their  educa- 
tion with  the  tenpenny. 

84 


A   CLOAK   WITH   BEADS. 

Jess's  oppoitunit)'  for  handling  the  garments 
that  others  of  her  sex  could  finger  in  shops  was 
when  she  had  guests  to  tea.  Persons  who  merely 
dropped  in  and  remained  to  tea  got  their  meal, 
as  a  rule,  in  the  kitchen.  They  had  nothing  on 
that  Jess  could   not  easily  take   in    as  she  talked 


WOMEN   ON    THE   BRAE. 


to  them.  But  when  they  came  by  special  invita- 
tion, the  meal  was  served  in  the  room,  the  guests' 
things  being  left  on  the  kitchen  bed.  Jess  not 
being  able  to  go  ben  the  house,  had  to  be  left 
with  the  things.  When  the  tim-e  to  go  arrived, 
these  were  found  on  the  bed,  just  as  they  had 
been  placed  there,  but  Jess  could   now  tell  Lecby 

85 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

whether  they  were  imitation,  why  Bell  Elshioner's 
feather  went  far  round  the  bonnet,  and  Chirsty 
Lownie's  reason  for  always  holding  her  left  arm 
fast  against  her  side  when  she  went  abroad  in  the 
black  jacket.  Ever  since  My  Hobart's  eleven 
and  a  bit  was  left  on  the  kitchen  bed  Jess  had 
hungered  for  a  cloak  with  beads.  My's  was  the 
very  marrows  of  the  one  T'nowhead's  wife  got  in 
Dundee  for  ten-and-sixpence ;  indeed,  we  would 
have  thought  that  'Lisbeth's  also  came  from 
Kyowowy's  had  not  Sanders  Elshioner's  sister 
seen  her  go  into  the  Dundee  shop  with  T'now- 
head  (who  was  loth),  and  hung  about  to  discover 
what  she  was  after. 

Hendry  was  not  quick  at  reading  faces  like 
Tammas  Haggart,  but  the  wistful  look  on  Jess's 
face  when  there  was  talk  of  eleven  and  a  bits 
had  its  meaning  for  him. 

"They're  grand  to  look  at,  no  doubt,"  I  have 
heard  him  say  to  Jess,  "but  they're  richt  an- 
noyin'.  That  new  w^ife  o'  Peter  Dickie's  had  ane 
on  in  the  kirk  last  Sabbath,  an'  wi'  her  sittin' 
juist  afore  us  I  couldna  listen  to  the  sermon  for 
tryin'  to  count  the  beads." 

Hendry  made  his  way  into  these  gossips   unin- 

86 


A   CLOAK   WITH    BEADS. 

vited,  for  his  opinions  on  dress  were  considered 
contemptible,  though  he  was  worth  consulting  on 
material.  Jess  and  Leeby  discussed  man)-  things 
in  his  presence,  confident  that  his  ears  were  not 
doing  their  work ;  but  every  now  and  then  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  been  hearkening  greedily. 
If  the  subject  was  dress,  he  might  then  become 
a  little  irritating. 

"  Oh,  they're  grand,"  Jess  admitted;   "  they  set 
a  body  aff  oncommon." 

"They  would  be  no  use  to  you,"  said   Hendry, 
"  for  ye  canna  wear  them  except  ootside." 

"  A  body  doesna  buy  cloaks  to  be  wcarin'  at 
them  steady,"  retorted  Jess. 

"  No,  no,  but  you  could  never  wear  yours 
though  ye  had  ane." 

"I  dinna  want  ane.  They're  far  ower  grand 
for  the  like  o'   me." 

"  They  're  nae  sic  thing.  Am  thinkin'  ye  're  juist 
as  fit  to  wear  an  eleven  and  a  bit  as  My  Hobart." 

"Weel,  mebbc  I  am.  but  it's  oot  o'  the  queis- 
tion  gettin'  ane,  they  're  sic  a  price." 

"  Ay,  an'  though  we  had  the  siller,  it  would 
surely  be  an  awfu'  like  thing  to  buy  a  cloak  'at 
ye  could   never  wear?  " 

87 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

"  Ou,  but  I  dinna  want  ane." 

Jess  spoke  so  mournfully  that  Hendry  became 
enraged. 

"  It 's  most  michty,"  he  said,  "  'at  ye  would 
gang  an'  set  yer  heart  on  sic  a  completely  use- 
less thing." 

"  I  hinna  set  my  heart  on  't." 

"  Dinna  blether.  Ye  've  been  speakin'  aboot 
thae  eleven  and  a  bits  to  Leeby,  afif  an'  on,  for 
twa  month." 

■  Then  Hendry  hobbled  off  to  his  loom,  and 
Jess  gave  me  a  look  which  meant  that  men  are 
tr}'ing  at  the  best,  once  you  are  tied  to  them. 

The  cloaks  continued  to  turn  up  in  conversa- 
tion, and  Hendry  poured  scorn  upon  Jess's  weak- 
ness, telling  her  she  would  be  better  employed 
mending  his  trousers  than  brooding  over  an  eleven 
and  a  bit  that  would  have  to  spend  its  life  in  a 
drawer.  An  outsider  would  have  thought  that 
Hendry  was  positively  cruel  to  Jess.  He  seemed 
to  take  a  delight  in  finding  that  she  had  neglected 
to  sew  a  button  on  his  waistcoat.  His  real  joy, 
however,  was  the  knowledge  that  she  sewed  as 
no  other  woman  in  Thrums  could  sew.  Jess  had 
a   genius    for    making    new    garments    out    of  old 

88 


A   CLOAK   WITH   BEADS. 

ones,  and  Hendi')-  never  tired  of  gloating  over 
her  cleverness  so  long  as  she  was  not  present. 
He  was  alwaj's  athirst  for  fresh  proofs  of  it,  and 
these  were  forthcoming  every  day.  Sparing  were 
his  words  of  praise  to  herself,  but  in  the  evening 
he  general!}'  had  a  smoke  with  me  in  the  attic, 
and  then  the  thought  of  Jess  made  him  chuckle 
till  his  pipe  went  out.  Wlicn  he  smoked  he 
grunted  as  if  in  pain,  though  this  really  added 
to  the  enjoyment. 

"  It  doesna  matter,"  he  would  say  to  me,  "  what 
Jess  turns  her  hand  to,  she  can  mak  ony  mortal 
thing.  She  doesna  need  nae  teachin' ;  na,  juist 
gie  her  a  guid  look  at  onything,  be  it  clothes,  or 
furniture,  or  in  the  bakin'  line,  it 's  all  the  same 
to  her.  She  '11  mak  another  exactly  like  it.  Ye 
canna  beat  her.  Her  bannocks  is  so  superior  'at 
a  Tilliedrum  woman  took  to  her  bed  after  tastin' 
them,  an'  when  the  lawyer  has  company  his  wife 
gets  Jess  to  make  some  bannocks  for  her  an'  syne 
pretends  they  're  her  ain  bakin'.  Ay,  there  's  a 
story  aboot  that.  One  day  the  auld  doctor,  him 
'at 's  deid,  was  at  his  tea  at  the  lawyer's,  an'  says 
the  guidwife,  'Try  the  cakes,  Mr.  Riach ;  they're 
my  own  bakin'.'     W'eel,  he  was  a  fearsomely  out- 

89 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

spoken  man,  the  doctor,  an'  nae  suner  had  he  the 
bannock  atween  his  teeth,  for  he  didna  stop  to 
swallow  't,  than  he  says,  '  Mistress  Geddie,'  says 
he,  '  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath.     Na,  na,  you  're 


FIRING   BANNOCKS. 


no  the  first  grand  leddy  'at  has  gien  me  bannocks 
as  their  ain  bakin'  'at  was  baked  and  fired  by  Jess 
Logan,  her  'at's  Hendry  McQumpha's  wife.'  Ay, 
they  say  the  lawyer's  wife  didna  ken  which  wy  to 

90 


A   CLOAK   WITH    BEADS. 

look,  she  was  that  mortified.  It 's  juist  the  same 
\vi'  sewin'.  There 's  wys  o'  ornamentin'  christ- 
enin'  robes  an'  the  Hke  'at 's  kent  to  naebody  but 
hersel ;  an'  as  for  stockin's,  vveel,  though  I  've 
seen  her  mak  sae  mony,  she  amazes  me  yet.  I 
mind  o'  a  furry  waistcoat  I  aince  had.  Weel, 
when  it  was  fell  dune,  do  you  think  she  gae  it 
awa  to  some  gaen  aboot  body  (vagrant)?  Na, 
she  made  it  into  a  richt  neat  coat  to  Jamie,  wha 
was  a  bit  laddie  at  the  time.  When  he  grew  out 
o'  it,  she  made  a  slipbody  o't  for  hersel.  Ay, 
I  dinna  ken  a'  the  different  things  it  became,  but 
the  last  time  I  saw  it  was  ben  in  the  room,  whaur 
she  'd  covered  a  footstool  wi't.  Yes,  Jess  is  the 
cleverest  crittur  I  ever  saw.  Leeby  's  handy,  but 
she 's  no  a  patch  on  her  mother." 

I  sometimes  repeated  these  panegyrics  to  Jess. 
She  merely  smiled,  and  said  that  men  haver  most 
terrible  when  they  are  not  at  their  work. 

Hendry  tried  Jess  sorely  over  the  cloaks,  and 
a  time  came  when,  only  by  exasperating  her, 
could  he  get  her  to  reply  to  his  sallies. 

"  Wha  wants  an  eleven  an'  a  bit?"  she  retorted 
now  and  again. 

"It's  you  'at  wants  it,"  said  Hendry,  promptly. 

9' 


A   WIN]30\V   IN   THRUMS. 

"  Did  I  ever  say  I  wanted  ane  ?  What  use 
could  I   hae  for 't?  " 

"That's  the  qucistion,"  said  Hendry.  "Ye 
canna  gang  the  length  o'  the  door,  so  ye  would 
never  be  able  to  wear  't." 

"  Ay,  weel,"  replied  Jess,  "  I  '11  never  hae  the 
chance  o'  no  bein'  able  to  wear  't,  for,  hooever 
muckle  I  wanted  it,  I  couldna  get  it." 

Jess's  infatuation  had  in  time  the  effect  of 
making  Hendry  uncomfortable.  In  the  attic 
he  delivered  himself  of  such  sentiments  as 
these : 

"  There  's  nae  understandin'  a  woman.  There  's 
Jess  'at  hasna  her  equal  for  cleverness  in  Thrums, 
man  or  woman,  an'  yet  she  's  fair  skeered  about 
thae  cloaks.  Aince  a  women  sets  her  mind  on 
something  to  wear,  she  's  mair  onreasonable  than 
the  stupidest  man.  Ay,  it  micht  mak  them  hum- 
ble to  see  hoo  foolish  they  are  syne.  No,  but  it 
doesna  do  't. 

"  If  it  was  a  thing  to  be  useful  noo,  I  wouldna 
think  the  same  o't,  but  she  could  never  wear  't. 
She  kens  she  could  never  wear 't,  an'  yet  she 's 
juist  as  keen  to  hae  't. 

"  I  dinna  like  to  see  her  so  wantin'  a  thing,  an' 

92 


A    CLOAK   WITH    BEADS. 

no  able  to   get  it.     lUit  it 's   an   awiu'  sum,  eleven 
an'   a  bit." 

He  tried  to  argue  with  her  tlirther. 

"  If  ye  had  eleven  an'  a  bit  to  fling  awa,"  he 
said,  "  ye  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  'at  yc  would 
bu}'  a  cloak  instead  o'  cloth  for  a  gown,  or  flan- 
nel for  petticoats,  or  some   useful  thing?" 

"  As  sure  as  death,"  said  Jess,  u  ith  unwonted 
\ehcmence,  "  if  a  cloak  I  could  get,  a  cloak  I 
would  buy." 

Hendry  came  up  to  tell  me  what  Jess  had 
said. 

"It's  a  michty  infatooation,"  he  said,  "but  it 
shows  hoo  her  heart 's  set  on  thae  cloaks." 

"Aincc  ye  had  it,"  he  argued  with  her,  "ye 
would  juist  hae  to  lock  it  awa  in  the  drawers. 
Ye  would  never  even  be  seein't." 

"Ay,  would  I,"  said  Jess.  "I  would  often  tak 
it  oot  an'  look  at  it.  A>',  an'  I  would  a}-e  ken  it 
was  there." 

"  But  naebody  would  ken  ye  had  it  but  yersel," 
said  Hendr\',  who  had  a  vague  notion  that  this 
was  a  telling  objection. 

"Would  they  no?"  answered  Jess.  "It  would 
be  a'  through  tlie  toon  afore  nicht." 

93 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

"  Weel,  all  I  can  say,"  said  Hendry,  "  is  'at 
ye  're  terrible  foolish  to  tak  the  want  o'  sic  a  use- 
less thing  to  heart." 

"  Am  no  takkin  't  to  heart,"  retorted  Jess,  as 
usual. 

Jess  needed  many  things  in  her  days  that  pov- 
erty kept  from  her  to  the  end,  and  the  cloak  was 
merely  a  luxury.  She  would  soon  have  let  it  slip 
by  as  something  unattainable  had  not  Hendry 
encouraged  it  to  rankle  in  her  mind.  I  cannot 
say  when  he  first  determined  that  Jess  should 
have  a  cloak,  come  the  money  as  it  liked,  for  he 
was  too  ashamed  of  his  weakness  to  admit  his 
project  to  me.  I  remember,  however,  his  saying 
to  Jess  one  day  : 

"  I  '11  warrant  ye  could  mak  a  cloak  yersel  the 
marrows  o'  thae  eleven  and  a  bits,  at  half  the 
price?" 

"  It  would  cost,"  said  Jess,  "  sax  an'  saxpence, 
exactly.  The  cloth  would  be  five  shillins,  an'  the 
beads  a  shillin'.  I  have  some  braid  'at  would  do  fine 
for  the  front,  but  the  buttons  would  be  saxpence." 

"Ye 're  sure  o'  that?" 

"  I  ken  fine,  for  I  got  Leeby  to  price  the  things 
in  the  shop." 

94 


A   CLOAK    WITH    BEADS. 

"Ay,  but  it  maun  be  ill  to  shape  the  cloaks 
richt.  There  was  a  queer  cut  aboot  that  ane 
Peter  Dickie's  new  wife  had  on." 

"  Queer  cut  or  no  queer  cut,"  said  Jess,  "  I 
took  the  shape  o'  My  Hobart's  ane  the  day  she 
was  here  at  her  tea,  an'  I  could  mak  the  identical 
o't  for  sax  an'  sax." 

"  I  dinna  believe 't,"  said  Hendr}',  but  when  he 
and  I  were  alone  he  told  me,  "  There  's  no  a 
doubt  she  could  niak  it.  Ye  heard  her  say  she 
had  taen  the  shape?  Ay,  that  shows  she's  rale 
set  on  a  cloak." 

Had  Jess  known  that  Hendry  had  been  saving 
up  for  months  to  buy  her  material  for  a  cloak, 
she  would  not  have  let  him  do  it.  She  could 
not  know,  however,  for  all  the  time  he  was  scrap- 
ing together  his  pence,  he  kept  up  a  ring-ding- 
dang  about  her  folly.  Hendry  gave  Jess  all  the 
wages  he  weaved,  except  threepence  weekly,  most 
of  which  went  in  tobacco  and  snuff.  The  dulse- 
man  had  perhaps  a  halfpenn\-  from  him  in  the 
fortnight.  I  noticed  that  for  a  long  time  Hendry 
neither  smoked  nor  snuffed,  and  I  knew  that  for 
years  he  had  carried  a  shilling  in  his  snuff-mull. 
The  remainder  of  the  nionc}-  he  must  have  made 

95 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

by  extra  work  at  his  loom,  by  working  harder, 
for  he  cotdd  scarcely  have  worked  longer. 

It  was  one  day  shortly  before  Jamie's  return  to 
Thrums  that  Jess  saw  Hendry  pass  the  house  and 
go  down  the  brae  when  he  ought  to  have  come 
in  to  his  brose.  She  sat  at  the  window  watching 
for  him,  and  by  and  by  he  reappeared,  carrying  a 
parcel. 

"  Whaur  on  earth  hae  ye  been?"  she  asked, 
"  an'  what 's  that  you  're  carryin'  ?  " 

"  Did  ye  think  it  was  an  eleven  an'  a  bit?  "  said 
Hendry. 

"  No,  I  didna,"  answered  Jess,  indignantly. 

Then  Hendry  slowly  undid  the  knots  of  the 
string  with  which  the  parcel  was  tied.  He  took 
off  the  brown  paper. 

"There's  yer  cloth,"  he  said,  "an'  here's  one 
an'  saxpence  for  the  beads  an'  the  buttons." 

While  Jess  still  stared  he  followed  me  ben  the 
house. 

"  It 's  a  terrible  haver,"  he  said  apologetically, 
"  but  she  had  set  her  heart  on  't." 


96 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE   POWER    OF   BEAUTY. 

One  eveninfT  there  was  such  a  crathcrinfr  at  the 
pig-sty  that  Hendr\-  and  I  could  not  get  a  board 
to  la\'  our  backs  against.  Circumstances  had 
pushed  Pete  Elshioner  into  the  place  of  honour 
that  belonged  by  right  of  mental  powers  to 
Tammas  Haggart,  and  Tammas  was  sitting  rather 
sullenly  on  the  bucket,  boring  a  hole  in  the  pig 
with  his  sarcastic  e\'e.  Pete  was  passing  round 
a  card,  and  in  time  it  reached  me.  "With  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  David  Alexander's  compliments,"  was 
printed  on  it,  and  Pete  leered  triumphantly  at  us 
as  it  went  the   round. 

"Weel,  what  think  ye?"  he  asked,  with  a  pre- 
tence at  modesty. 

"On,"  said  T'nowhcad,  looking  at  the  others 
like  one  who  asked  a  question,  "  ou,  I  tliink;  ay, 
ay." 

7  97 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

The  others  seemed  to  agree  with  him,  all  but 
Tammas,  who  did  not  care  to  tie  himself  down  to 
an  opinion. 

"  Ou  a\',"  T'nowhcad  continued,  more  confidently, 
"  it  is  so,  deceededly." 


£li.-i'.\^^\'l..- 


t'nowhead  farmhouse. 


"  Ye  '11  no  ken,"  said  Pete,  chuckling,  "  what  it 
means?  " 

"  Na,"  the  farmer  admitted,  "  na,  I  canna  say  I 
exac'ly  ken  that." 

"  1  ken,  though,"  said  Tammas,  in  his  keen  way. 

98 


THE    POWER    OF    BEAUTY. 

"Weel,  then,  what  is 't?  "  demanded  Pete,  who 
had  never  propcrlx-  come  under  Tammas's  spell. 

"  I  ken,"  said  Tammas. 

"  Oot  wi't  then." 

"I  dinna  sa)'  it's  i)"in'  on  ni}'  tongue,"  Tammas 
replied,  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  "  but  if  ye  '11  juist 
speak  awa  aboot  some  other  thing  for  a  meenute 
or  twa,  I  '11  tell  ye  s}'ne.'' 

Hendr\'  said  that  this  was  only  reasonable,  but 
we  could  think  of  no  subject  at  the  moment,  so 
we  only  stared  at  Tammas,  and  waited. 

"  I  fathomed  it,"  he  said  at  last,  "  as  sune  as 
my  een  lichted  on  't.  It's  one  o'  the  bit  cards  'at 
grand  fowk  slip  'aneath  doors  when  they  mak 
calls,  an'   their  friends  is  no  in.     Ay,  that  's  what 

it    IS. 

"I  dinna  say  v'e're  wrang,"  Pete  answered,  a 
little  annoyed.  "  A\',  weel,  lads,  of  course  David 
Alexander's  oor  Dite  as  we  called  'im,  Dite 
Elshioner,  an'  that 's  his  wy  o'  signifyin'  to  us  'at 
he's  married." 

"I  assure  ye,"  said  Hendry,  "  Dite 's  doin'  the 
thing  in  st\-le." 

"  A\',  we  said  lliat  when  the  card  arrivetl,"  Pete 
admitted. 

99 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  I  kent,"  said  Tammas,  "  'at  that  was  the  wy 
grand  fowk  did  when  they  got  married.  I  've 
kent  it  a  lang  time.  It 's  no  nae  surprise  to 
me. 

"  He  's  been  lang  in  marryin',"  Hookey  Crewe 
said. 

"  He  was  thirty  at  Martinmas,"  said  Pete. 

"Thirty,  was  he?"  said  Hookey.  "Man,  I'd 
buried  twa  wives  by  the  time  I  was  that  age,  an' 
was  castin'  aboot  for  a  third." 

"  I  mind  o'  them,"  Hendry  interposed. 

"Ay,"  Hookey  said,  "  the  first  twa  was  angels." 
There  he  paused.  "  An'  so  's  the  third,"  he  added, 
"  in  many  respects." 

"But  wha 's  the  woman  Dite 's  taen?"  T'now- 
head  or  some  one  of  the  more  silent  members  of 
the  company  asked  of  Pete. 

"  Ou,  we  dinna  ken  wha  she  is,"  answered  Pete; 
"  but  she  '11  be  some  Glasca  lassie,  for  he  's  there 
noo.  Look,  lads,  look  at  this.  He  sent  this  at 
the  same  time;  it's  her  picture."  Pete  produced 
the  silhouette  of  a  young  lady,  and  handed  it 
round. 

"  What  do  ye  think?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  assure  ye  !  "  said  Hookey. 

lOO 


THE  POWER    OF   BEAUTY. 

"  Sal,"  said  Hendry,  even  more  charmed,  "  Dite  's 
done  weel." 

"  Lat's  see  her  in  a  better  Hcht,"  said  Tanmias. 

He  stood  up  and  examined  the  photograph 
narrowh',  while   Pete   fidgeted  with  his  legs. 

"Fairish,"  said  Tanimas  at  last.  "  Ou,  ay;  no 
what  I  would  selec'  m)'sel,  but  a  dainty  bit  stocky ! 
Ou,  a  tast\-  crittur\- !  a)',  an'  she  's  weel  in  order. 
Lads,  she  's  a  fine  stoot  kimmer." 

"  1  conseeder  her  a  beauty,"  said  Pete,  aggres- 
sivel}'. 

"  She  's  a'  that,"  said  Hendry. 

"  A'  I  can  sa}%"  said  Hookey,  "  is  'at  she  taks  me 
most  micht)'." 

"  She  's  no  a  beauty,"  Tammas  maintained  ;  "  na, 
she  doesna  juist  come  u[)  to  that;  but  I  dinna 
deny  but  what  she  's  weel  faurcd." 

"What  faut  do  ye  find  wi'  her,  Tammas?" 
asked   Hendry. 

"  Conseedered  criticall\',"  said  Tammas,  holding 
the  photf)graph  at  aim's  lengtli,  "  1  would  sa}'  'at 
she  —  let  s  see  noo ;  a\',  I  would  say  'at  she  's 
defeecient  in   genteelity." 

"  Havers  !    "  said  Pete. 

"  Na,"    said     Tammas,    "  no    when    conseedered 

lOI 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

critically.  Ye  see  she  's  drawn  lauchin' ;  an'  the 
genteel  thing's  no  to  lauch,  but  juist  to  put  on  a 
bit  smirk.     Ay,  that  's  the  genteel  thing." 

"  A  smile,  they  ca'  it,"  interposed  T'nowhead. 

"  I  said  a  smile,"  continued  Tammas.  "  Then 
there's  her  waist.  I  sa)' naething  agin  her  waist, 
speakin'  in  the  ord'nar'  meanin' ;  but,  conseedered 
critically,  there's  a  \\'ant  o'  suppleness,  as  ye  micht 
say,  aboot  it.     Ay,  it  docsna  compare  wi'  the  waist 

o' "     (Here  Tammas  mentioned  a  }'oung  lady 

who  had  recently  married  into  a  local  county  family.) 

"  That  was  a  prett}^  tiddy,"  said  Hookey.  "  Ou, 
losh,  ay  !  it  made  me  a  kind  o'  queery  to  look  at 
her." 

"Ye  're  ower  k}'owowy,  Tammas,"  said  Pete. 

"  I  may  be,  Pete,"  Tammas  admitted  ;  "  but  I 
maun  sa\'  I  'm  fond  o'  a  bonny-looken  wmnan,  an' 
no  ais}'  to  please:  na,  I'm  nat'rally  ane  o'  the 
critical    kind." 

"  It  's  extror'nar',"  said  T'nowhead,  "  what  a 
poo'er  beaut)'  has.  I  mind  when  I  was  a  callant 
readin'  aboot  Mary  (Jueen  o'  Scots  till  I  was  fair 
mad,  lads;  yes,  I  was  fair  matl  at  her  bein'  deid. 
Ou,  I  could  hardly  sleep  at  nichts  for  thinking  o' 
her." 

I02 


THE   POWER   OE    BEAUTY. 

"  Man'  was  spunk\'  as  wccl  as  a  beaut}',"  said 
Hookc}',  "  an'  that 's  the  kind  1  like.  Lads,  what  a 
persuasix'c  tid  she  was  !  " 

"  She  got  roond  the  men,"  said  Hendn',  "  a\', 
she  turned  them  roond  her  finger.  That  's  tlie 
warst  o'   thae  beauties." 

"I  dinna  gainsay,"  said  T'nowliead,  "but  what 
there  was  a  Httlc  o'  the  deexil  in  Mary,  the 
crittur." 

Here  T'nowhead  chuckled,  and  then  looked 
scared. 

"What  AIar\-  needed,"  said  Tammas,  "was  a 
strong  man  to   manage  her." 

"  A\',  man,  but  it's  ill  to  manage  thae  beauties. 
They  gie  }-e  a  glint  o'  their  een,  an'  s}'ne  whaur  are 
ye?" 

"  Ah,  they  can  be  managed,"  said  Tammas, 
complacent!)'.  "  There  's  naebod\-  nat'rallx'  safter 
wi'  a  prett}'  stock}'  o'  a  liit  wuman}-  than  m}'sel ; 
but  for  a'  that,  if  T  had  been  AIar}-'s  man  I  would 
hae  stood  nanc  o'  her  tantrums.  '  Xa,  Mar}-,  ni}' 
lass,'  I  would  hae  said,  'this  winna  do;  na,  na, 
ye  're  a  bonn}'  bod}',  l)ut  }"e  maun  mind  'at  man's 
the  superior;  a}',  man's  the  lord  o'  creation,  an' 
so  ye  maun  juist  sing  sma'.'     That's  hoo  I 


would 


103 


A    WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

hae  managed  Mary,  the  speerity  crittur  'at  she 
was. 

"  Ye  would  hae  haen  yer  wark  cut  oot  for  ye, 
Tammas." 

"  Ilka  mornin',"  pursued  Tammas,  "  I  would  hae 
said  to  her,  '  Mary,'  I  would  hae  said,  '  wha  's  to 
wear  thae  breeks  the  day,  you  or  me?  '  A}',  syne 
I  would  hae  ordered  her  to  kindle  the  fire,  or  if  I 
had  been  the  king,  of  coorsc  I  would  hae  telt  her 
instead  to  ring  the  bell  an'  hae  the  cloth  laid  for 
the  breakfast.  Ay,  that 's  the  wy  to  mak  the  like 
o'  Mary  respec  ye." 

Pete  and  I  left  them  talking.  He  had  written  a 
letter  to  David  Alexander,  and  wanted  me  to 
"  back  "  it. 


104 


CHArTER    X. 

A   MAGNUM    OPUS. 

Two  Bibles,  a  volume  of  sermons  b}'  the  learned 
Dr.  Isaac  Barrow,  a  few  numbers  of  the  Cheap 
Magazine  that  had  strayed  from  Dunfermline,  and 
a  Pilgrim's  Progress,  were  the  works  that  lay 
conspicuous  ben  in  the  room.  Hendry  had  also 
a  copy  of  Burns,  whom  he  always  quoted  in  the 
complete  i)oem,  and  a  collection  of  legends  in 
song  and  prose,  that  Leeby  kept  out  of  sight  in  a 
drawer. 

The  weight  of  m\'  box  of  books  was  a  subject 
Hendr\-  was  ver}-  willing  to  shake  his  head  over, 
but  he  nex'cr  showed  any  desire  to  take  off  the  lid. 
Jess,  howex'cr,  was  more  curious  ;  indeed,  she  would 
have  been  an  omnivorous  dex'ourer  of  books  had  it 
not  been  for  her  conx'iction  that  reading  was  idling. 
Until  I  found  lur  out  she  never  allowed  to  me  that 
Leeby  brought  her  m\-  books  one  at  a  time.  Some 
of    them    were    novels,    and    Jt'ss    tooK    about    ten 

105 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

minutes  to  each.  She  confessed  that  what  she 
read  was  only  the  last  chapter,  owing  to  a  con- 
suming curiosity  to  know  whether  "  she  got  him." 

She  read  all  the  London  part,  however,  of  The 
Heart  of  Midlothian,  because  London  was  where 
Jamie  lived,  and  she  and  I  had  a  discussion  about 
it  which  ended  in  her  remembering  that  Thrums 
once  had  an  author  of  its  own. 

"Bring  oot  the  book,"  she  said  to  Leeby ;  "  it 
was  put  awa  i'  the  bottom  drawer  ben  i'  the  room 
sax  year  syne,  an'  I  sepad  it's  there  yet." 

Leeby  came  but  with  a  faded  little  book,  the 
title  already  rubbed  from  its  shabby  brown  covers. 
I  opened  it,  and  then  all  at  once  I  saw  before  me 
again  the  man  who  wrote  and  printed  it  and  died. 
He  came  hobbling  up  the  brae,  so  bent  that  his 
body  was  almost  at  right  angles  to  his  legs,  and 
his  broken  silk  hat  was  carefully  brushed  as  in 
the  days  when  Janet,  his  sister,  lived.  There  he 
stood   at  the  top  of  the  brae,  panting. 

I  was  but  a  boy  when  Jimsy  Duthie  turned  the 
corner  of  the  brae  for  the  last  time,  with  a  score  of 
mourners  behind  him.  While  I  knew  him  there 
was  no  Janet  to  run  to  the  door  to  see  if  he  was 
coming.     So  occupied   was   Jimsy  with   the  great 

1 06 


c 

c 


A    MAGNUM    OPUS. 

atlair  of  his  life,  which  was  brewinijj  for  thirty  years, 
that  his  neighbours  saw  how  he  missed  his  sister 
better  than  he  reahzed  it  himself.  Only  his  hat  was 
no  longer  carefulh'  brushed,  and  his  coat  hung 
awr\-.  and  there  was  sometimes  little  reason  wh\'  he 
should  go  home  to  dinner.  It  is  for  the  sake  of 
Janet  who  adored  him  that  we  should  remember 
Jims}-  in  the  da\-s  before  she  died. 

Jims)'  was  a  poet,  and  for  the  space  of  thirty 
\^ears  he  li\ed  in  a  great  epic  on  the  Millennium. 
This  is  the  book  presented  to  me  by  Jess,  that  lies 
so  quietl}'  on  m\'  topmost  shelf  now.  Open  it, 
howexer,  and  }'Ou  will  find  that  the  work  is  entitled 
"  The  Millennium  :  an  Epic  Poem,  in  Twelve  Books  : 
b\'  James  Duthie."  In  the  little  hole  in  his  wall 
where  Jimsy  kept  his  books  there  was,  I  have  no 
doubt,  —  for  his  effects  were  rouped  before  I  knew 
him  exce})t  b\'  name,  —  a  well-read  copy  of  Para- 
disc  Lost.  Some  people  would  smile,  perhaps,  if 
they  read  the  two  epics  side  by  side,  and  others 
might  sigh,  for  there  is  a  great  deal  in  "  The 
Millennium  "  that  ATilton  could  take  credit  for. 
Jims}'  had  educated  himst'lf  after  the  idea  of 
writing  something  that  the  world  would  not 
willingly   let  die   came  to   him,  and   he   began   his 

109 


A    WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

book  before  his  education  was  complete.  So  far 
as  I  know,  he  never  wrote  a  line  that  had  nut  to 
do  with  "The  Millennium."  He  was  ever  a  man 
sparing  of  his  plural  tenses,  and  "  The  Millennium  " 
says  "  has  "  for  "  have  "  ;  a  vain  word,  indeed,  which 
Thrums  would  only  have  permitted  as  a  poetical 
license.  The  one  original  character  in  the  poem 
is  the  devil,  of  whom  Jimsy  gives  a  picture  that  is 
startling  and  graphic,  and  received  the  approval  of 
the  Auld  Licht  minister. 

By  trade  Jimsy  was  a  printer,  a  master-printer 
with  no  one  under  him,  and  he  printed  and  bound 
his  book  ten  copies  in  all,  as  well  as  wrote  it.  To 
print  the  poem  took  him,  I  dare  say,  nearly  as  long 
as  to  write  it,  and  he  set  up  the  pages  as  the)'  were 
written,  one  by  one.  The  book  is  only  printed  on 
one  side  of  the  leaf,  and  each  page  was  produced 
separatcl}'  like  a  little  hand  bill.  Those  who  may 
pick  up  the  book  —  but  who  will  care  to  do  so?  — 
will  think  that  the  author  or  his  printer  could  not 
spell  —  but  they  would  not  do  Jimsy  that  injustice 
if  they  knew  the  circumstances  in  which  it  was  pro- 
duced. He  had  but  a  small  stock  of  type,  and  on 
many  occasions  he  ran  out  of  a  letter.  The  letter 
e  tried  him  sorely.     Those  who  knew  him  best  say 

I  lO 


A    MAGNUM    OPUS. 

that  he  tried  to  think  of  words  without  an  <■  in  then'?, 
but  when  he  was  baffled  he  hatl  to  use  a  little  a  or 
an  c  instead.  He  could  print  correctly,  but  in  the 
book  there  are  a  ijjood  many  caj)ital  letters  in  the 
middle  of  words,  and  sometimes  there  is  a  note  of 
interrogation  alter  "  Alas  "  or  "  Woes  me,"  because 
all  the  notes  of  exclamation  had  been  used  up. 

Jimsy  ne\'er  cared  to  speak  about  his  i^reat  poem 
e\'en  to  his  closest  friends,  but  Janet  told  how  he 
read  it  out  to  her,  and  that  his  whole  bod)-  trembled 
with  excitement  while  he  raised  his  e\-es  to  heaven 
as  if  asking  for  inspiration  that  would  enable  his 
\'oice  to  do  justice  to  his  writing.  So  grand  it  was, 
said  Janet,  that  her  stocking  would  slip  from  her 
fingers  as  he  read  —  and  Janet's  stockings,  that 
she  was  alwa\-s  knitting  when  not  otherwise  en- 
gaged, did  not  slip  from  her  hands  readily.  After 
her  death  he  was  heard  by  his  neighbours  reciting 
the  poem  to  himself,  generalh-  with  his  door  locked. 
He  is  said  to  have  declaimed  part  of  it  one  still 
evening  from  the  top  of  the  commont\-  like  one 
addressing  a  multitude,  and  the  idlers  who  had 
crept  up  to  jeer  at  him  fell  back  when  the)-  saw 
his  face.  He  walked  through  them,  they  told,  with 
his  old  body  straight  once  more,  and  a  queer  light 

1 1 1 


A    WINDOW    IN    TFIRUiMS. 

pla^'ins:^^  on  his  face.  His  lips  arc  nioxinsj^  as  I  see 
him  turninL;-  the  corner  of  the  brae.  So  he  passed 
from  }'outh  to  old  age,  and  all  his  life  seemed  a 
dream,   except    that   part   of   it    in   which   he   was 


AT   THE   TOP    OF   THE   COMMONTY. 


writing,  or  printing,  or  stitching,  or  binding  "  The 
Millennium."     At  last  the  work  was  completed. 

"  It  is  finished,"  he  printed  at  the  end  of  the  last 
book.     "  The  task  of  thirty  years  is  over." 

112 


A   MAGNUM   OPUS. 

It  is  indeed  over.  No  one  ever  read  "  The 
jVIillenniuni."'  I  ;ini  not  going  to  sentimentalize 
over  my  cop}',  for  how  nuich  of  it  have  I  read? 
l^ut  neither  shaU  I  say  that  it  was  written  to  no 
end. 

V(ui  ma\-  care  to  l<now  the  last  of  Jims}',  thongh 
in  one  sense  he  was  blotted  out  when  the  last  copy 
was  bound.  He  had  sax'cd  one  hundred  pounds 
b}'  that  time,  and  being  now  neither  able  to  work 
nor  to  li\e  alone,  his  friends  cast  about  for  a  home 
for  his  remaining  years.  He  was  very  spent  and 
feeble,  }ct  he  had  the  fear  that  he  might  be  still 
aliv'C  when  all  his  money  was  gone.  After  that 
was  the  workhouse.  He  covered  sheets  of  paper 
with  calculations  about  how  long  the  hundred 
pounds  would  last  if  he  gave  away  for  board  and 
lodgings  ten  shillings,  nine  shillings,  seven  and 
sixpence  a  week.  At  last,  with  sore  misgivings, 
he  went  to  li\'e  with  a  famil\-  who  took  him  for 
eight  shillings.  Less  than  a  month  afterwards  he 
died. 


8 


113 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE   GHOST   CRADLE. 

Our  dinner-hour  was  twelve  o'clock,  and  Hendry, 
for  a  not  incomprehensible  reason,  called  this  meal 
his  brose.  Frequently,  however,  while  I  was  there 
to  share  the  expense,  broth  was  put  on  the  table, 
with  beef  to  follow  in  clean  plates,  much  to 
Hendry's  distress,  for  the  comfortable  and  usual 
practice  Avas  to  eat  the  beef  from  the  broth-plates. 
Jess,  however,  having"  three  whole  white  plates  and 
two  cracked  ones,  insisted  on  the  meals  being  taken 
genteelly,  and  her  husband,  \\\t\\  a  look  at  me,  gave 
way. 

"  Half  a  pound  o'  boiling  beef,  an'  a  penny 
bone,"  was  Leeb\''s  almost  invariable  order  when 
she  dealt  with  the  flesher,  and  Jess  had  always 
neighbours  poorer  than  herself  who  got  a  plate- 
ful of  the  broth.  She  never  had  an\'thing  without 
remembering  some  old  body  who  would  be  the 
better  of  a  little  of  it. 

114 


THE   GHOST   CRADLE. 

Among  those  who  must  have  missed  Jess  sadl)' 
after  she  was  gone  was  Jolinn}-  Troctor,  a  half- 
witted man  who,  because  he  could  not  work,  re- 
mained straight  at  a  time  of  life  w  hen  most  weavers, 
male  and  female,  had  lost  some  inches  of  their 
stature.     For,  as    far    back   as   my  memory  goes, 


IN    THK    GARDEN. 


Johnny  had  got  his  brosc  three  times  a  week  from 
Jess,  his  custom  being  to  walk  in  without  cercmon)% 
and,  drawing  a  stool  to  the  table,  tell  Leeb\'  that  he 
was  now  ready.     One  da\',  however,  when  I  was  in 

115 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

the  garden  putting  some  rings  on  a  fishing-wand, 
Johnny  pushed  by  me,  with  no  sign  of  recognition 
on  his  face.  I  addressed  him,  and,  after  pausing 
undecidedly,  he  ignored  me.  When  he  came  to 
the  door,  instead  of  flinging  it  open  and  walking 
in,  he  knocked  primly,  which  surprised  me  so  much 
that  I  followed  him. 

"Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha  lives?" 
he  asked,  when  Leeby,  with  a  face  ready  to  re- 
ceive the  minister  himself,  came  at  length  to 
the    door. 

I  knew  that  the  gentility  of  the  knock  had  taken 
both  her  and  her  mother  aback. 

"  Hoots,  Johnny,"  said  Leeby,  "  what  haver  's 
this?     Come  awa  in." 

Johnny  seemed  annoyed. 

"Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha  lives?"  he 
repeated. 

"  Say  'at  it  is,"  cried  Jess,  who  was  quicker  in 
the  uptake  than  her  daughter. 

"  Of  course  this  is  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha 
lives,"  Leeby  then  said,  "as  weel  ye  ken,  for  ye 
had  yer  dinner  here  no  twa  hours  syne." 

"Then,"  said  Johnny,  "Mistress  Tully's  com- 
pliments to  her,  and  would  she  kindly    lend    the 

ii6 


THE    GHOST   CRADLE. 

christcnin'  robe,  an'  also  the  tea-tray,  if  the  same 
be  na  needed  ?  " 

Ha\ing  dehvered  his  message  as  instructed, 
Johnny  consented  to  sit  down  until  the  famous 
cliristening  robe  and  the  tra\-  were  readv,  but  he 
would  not  talk,  for  that  was  not  in  the  bond.  Jess's 
sweet  face  beamed  over  the  compliment.  Mrs. 
Tully,  known  on  ordinary  occasions  as  Jean  McTag- 
gart,  had  paid  her,  and,  after  Johnn}^  had  departed 
laden,  she  told  me  how  the  tra\',  which  had  a  great 
bump  in  the  middle,  came  into  her  possession. 

"  Ye  've  often  heard  me  speak  aboot  tlic  time 
when  I  was  a  lassie  workin'  at  the  farm  o'  the 
Bog?  A}',  that  was  afore  me  an'  Hendry  kent 
ane  anither,  an'  I  was  as  fleet  on  m\-  feet  in  thae 
days  as  Leeby  is  noo.  It  was  Sam'l  Fletcher  'at 
was  the  farmer,  but  he  maun  hae  been  gone  afore 
you  was  mair  than  born.  Alebbe,  though,  ye  ken 
'at  he  was  a  terrible  invalid,  an'  for  the  hinmost 
years  o'  his  life  he  sat  in  a  muckle  chair  nicht  an' 
day.  Ay,  when  I  took  his  denner  to  'im,  on  that 
very  tra)'  'at  jojinny  cam  for,  1  little  thocht  'at  b}- 
an'  by  I  would  be  sae  keepit  in  a  chair  m\'sel. 

"  Hut  the  thinkin'  o'  Sam'l  Fletcher's  case  is  ane 
o'   the   things  'at  maks   me   awfu'   thankfu'    for  the 

117 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

lenient  wy  the  Lord  has  aye  dealt  \vi'  n\c ;  for 
Sam'l  couldna  move  oot  o'  the  chair,  aye  sleepin' 
in  't  at  nicht,  an'  I  can  come  an'  gang  between  mine 
an'  my  bed.  Mebbe,  }-e  think  I  'm  no  much  better 
off  than  Sam'l,  but  that's  a  terrible  mistak.  What 
a  glor\'  it  would  hae  been  to  him  if  he  could  hae 
gone  frae  ane  end  o'  the  kitchen  to  the  ither.  Ay, 
I  'm  sure  o'  that. 

"  Sam'l  was  rale  weel  liked,  for  he  was  saft- 
spokcn  to  everybody,  an'  fond  o'  haen  a  gossip 
wi'  on}-  ane  'at  was  aboot  the  farm.  We  didna 
care  sae  muckle  for  the  wife,  Eppie  Lownie,  for 
she  managed  the  farm,  an'  she  was  fell  hard  an' 
terrible  reserved  we  thocht,  no  even  likin'  ony 
body  to  get  friendly  wi'  the  mester,  as  we  called 
Sam'l.     A\',  we  made  a  richt  mistak." 

As  I  had  heard  frequently  of  this  queer,  mourn- 
ful mistake  made  b)'  those  who  considered  Sam'l 
unfortunate  in  his  wife,  I  turned  Jess  on  to  the 
main  line  of  her  story. 

"  It  was  the  ghost  cradle,  as  they  named  it,  '^,\ 
I  meant  to  tell  ye  aboot.  The  Bog  was  a  bigger 
farm  in  thae  days  than  noo,  but  I  daursay  it  has 
the  new  stcadin'  yet.  Ay,  it  winna  be  new  noo, 
but  at  the  time  there  was  sic  a  commotion  aboot 

ii8 


> 
•-3 

H 

n 

e 
c 
c 


THE   GHOST   CRADLE. 

the  ghost  cradle,  they  were  juist  puttin'  the  new 
steadin'  up.  There  was  sax  or  mair  masons  at  it, 
wi'  the  lads  on  the  farm  helpin',  an'  as  they  were 
all  sleepin'  at  the  farm,  there  was  great  stir  aboot 
the  place.  I  couldna  tell  ye  hoo  the  story  aboot 
the  farm's  bein'  haunted  rose,  to  begin  wi',  but  I 
mind  fine  hoo  fleid  I  was;  ay,  an'  no  only  me, 
but  every  man-body  an'  woman-body  on  the  farm. 
It  was  aye  late  'at  the  soond  began,  an'  we  never 
saw  naething,  we  juist  heard  it.  The  masons  said 
they  wouldna  hae  been  sae  fleid  if  they  could  hae 
seen  't,  but  it  never  was  seen.  It  had  the  soond 
o'  a  cradle  rockin',  an'  when  we  lay  in  our  beds 
hearkcnin',  it  grew  louder  an'  louder  till  it  wasna 
to  be  borne,  an'  the  women-folk  fair  skirled  wi' 
fear.  The  mester  was  intimate  wi'  a'  the  stories 
aboot  ghosts  an'  water-kelpies  an'  sic  like,  an'  we 
couldna  help  listenin'  to  them.  But  he  aye  said 
'at  ghosts  "at  was  juist  heard  an'  no  seen  was  the 
maist  fearsome  an'  wicked.  For  all  there  was  sic 
fear  ower  the  hale  farm-toon  'at  naebod}'  would 
gang  ower  the  door  alane  after  the  gloamin'  cam. 
the  mester  said  he  wasna  fleid  to  sU-ep  i'  the 
kitchen  by  'imsel.  We  thocht  it  richt  brave  o' 
'im,  for  ye  see  he  was  as  helpless  as  a  bairn. 

121 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 


"  Richt  queer  stories  rose  aboot  the  cradle,  an' 
travelled  to  the  ither  farms.  The  wife  didna  like 
them  ava,  for  it  was  said  'at  there  maun  hae  been 
some  awful  murder  o'  an  infant  on  the  farm,  or 
we  wouldna  be  haunted  by  a  cradle.  Syne  folk 
began  to  mind  'at  there  had  been  nae  bairns  born 

on  the  farm  as  far  back  as 
onybody  kent,  an'  it  was 
said  'at  some  lang  syne 
crime  had  made  the  Bog 
cursed. 

"Dinna  think  'at  we  juist 
lay  in  our  beds  or  sat  round 
the  fire  shakkin  wi'  fear. 
Everything  'at  could  be 
dune  was  dune.  In  the 
daytime,  when  naething 
was  heard,  the  masons 
explored  a'  place  i'  the 
farm,  in  the  hope  o'  findin'  oot  'at  the  sound 
was  caused  by  sic  a  thing  as  the  wind  pla\'in' 
on  the  wood  in  the  garret.  Even  at  nichts, 
when  they  couldna  sleep  wi'  the  soond,  I  've 
kent  them  rise  in  a  body  an'  gang  all  ower  the 
house    wi'     lichts.     I  've     seen    them    climbin'    on 


A    CRUIZEY    LAMP. 


122 


THE   GHOST   CRADLE. 

the  new  stcadin',  crawliii'  alang  the  rafters  haudin' 
their  cruize\'  lamps  afore  them,  an'  us  women- 
bodies  shi\erin'  wi'  fear  at  the  door.  It  was  on 
ane  o'  thae  nichts  'at  a  mast)n  iell  off  the  rafters 
an'  broke  his  leg.  W'eel,  sic  a  state  was  the  men 
in  to  find  oot  what  it  was  'at  was  terr\'f\in'  them 
sae  muckle,  'at  the  rest  o'  them  climbed  up  at 
aince  to  the  place  he  'd  fallen  frae,  thinkin'  there 
was  something  there  'at  had  fleid  'im.  Ikit  though 
they  crawled  back  an'  forrit  there  was  naething 
ava. 

"  The  rockin'  was  louder,  we  thocht,  after  that 
nicht,  an'  syne  the  men  said  it  would  go  on  till 
somebod}'  was  killed.  That  idea  took  a  richt  haud 
o'  them,  an'  twa  ran  awa  back  to  Tilliedrum,  whaur 
the\-  had  come  frae.  They  gaed  thegithcr  i'  the 
middle  o'  the  nicht,  an'  it  was  thocht  next  mornin' 
'at  the  ghost  had  spirited  them  awa. 

"  Ye  couldna  conceive  hoo  low-spirited  we  all 
were  after  the  masons  had  gien  up  hope  o'  findin' 
a  nat'ral  cause  for  the  soond.  At  ord'nar'  times 
there  's  no  on\-  mair  lichtsome  place  than  a  farm 
after  the  men  hae  come  in  to  their  supper,  but  at 
the  Bog  we  sat  dour  an'  sullen  ;  an'  there  wasna  a 
mason  or  a  farm-servant  'at  wt)uld   gang  b)'  'imsel 

123 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

as  far  as  the  end  o'  the  hoose  whaiir  the  peats 
was  keepit.  The  mistress  maun  hae  saved  some 
siller  that  spring  through  the  Egyptians  keepin' 
awa,  for  the  farm  nad  got  sic  an  ill  name,  'at  nae 
tinkler  would  come  near 't  at  nicht.  The  tailor- 
man  an'  his  laddie,  'at  should  hae  bidden  wi'  us 
to  sew  things  for  the  men,  walkit  off  fair  skeered 
one  mornin',  an'  settled  doon  at  the  farm  o'  Cragie- 
buckle  fower  mile  awa,  whaur  our  lads  had  to 
gae  to  them.  Ay,  I  mind  the  tailor's  sendin'  the 
laddie  for  the  money  owin'  him ;  he  hadna  the 
speerit  to  venture  again  within  soond  o'  the  cra- 
dle 'imsel.  The  men  on  the  farm,  though,  couldna 
blame  'im  for  that.  They  were  juist  as  flichtered 
themsels,  an'  mony  a  time  I  saw  them  hittin'  the 
dogs  for  whinin'  at  the  soond.  The  wy  the  dogs 
took  on  was  fearsome  in  itsel,  for  they  seemed  to 
ken,  aye  when  nicht  cam  on,  'at  the  rockin'  would 
sune  begin,  an'  if  they  werena  chained  they  cam 
runnin'  to  the  hoose.  I  hae  heard  the  hale  glen 
fu',  as  ye  micht  say,  wi'  the  whinin'  o'  dogs,  for 
the  dogs  on  the  other  farms  took  up  the  cry,  an' 
in  a  glen  ye  can  hear  soonds  terrible  far  away  at 
nicht, 

"As   lang  as   we  sat   i'    the   kitchen,  listenin'  to 

124 


THE   GHOST   CRADLE. 

what  the  mcstcr  had  to  say  aboot  the  ghosts  in 
his  }'oung  da}-s,  the  cradle  would  be  still,  but  we 
were  nae  suner  awa  speeritless  to  our  beds  than  it 
began,  an'  sometimes  it  lasted  till  mornin'.  We 
lookit  upon  the  mester  almost  wi'  awe,  sittin' 
there  sac  helpless  in  his  chair,  an'  no  fleid  to  be 
left  alane.  He  had  lang  white  hair,  an'  a  saft 
bonn}'  face  'at  would  hae  made  'im  respeckit  b\^ 
on}'body,  an'  a}'e  when  we  speired  if  he  wasna 
fleid  to  be  left  alane,  lie  said,  'Them  'at  has  a 
clear  conscience  has  naething  to  fear  frae  ghosts.' 

"  There  was  some  'at  said  the  curse  would 
never  leave  the  farm  till  the  house  was  razed  to 
the  ground,  an'  it  's  the  truth  I  'm  tellin'  )'e  when 
I  say  there  was  talk  among  the  men  aboot  setlin't 
on  fire.  The  mester  was  richt  stern  when  he 
heard  o'  that,  tiuotin'  frae  Scripture  in  a  solenm 
wy  'at  abashed  the  masons,  but  he  said  'at  in  his 
opeenion  there  was  a  bairn  buried  on  the  farm, 
an'  till  it  was  found  the  cradle  would  go  on 
rockin'.  .After  that  the  masons  dug  in  a  lot  o' 
places  lookin'  for  the  bod\',  an'  they  found  some 
queer  things,  too,  but  never  nae  sign  o'  a  mur- 
dered litlin'.  Ay,  I  dinna  ken  what  would  hae 
happened   if  the  commotion   had   gaen   on   muckle 

125 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

langer.  One  thing  I  'm  sure  o'  is  'at  the  mistress 
would  hac  gacn  daft,  she  took  it  a'  sae  terrible 
to   heart. 

"  I  lauch  at  it  noo,  but  I  tell  ye  I  used  to  tak 
ni}'  heart  to  m\'  bed  in  ni\'  mooth.  If  )'e  hinna 
heard  the  story,  I  dinna  think  }'e  '11  be  able  to 
guess  what  the   ghost  cradle  was." 

I  said  I  had  been  tr)'ing  to  think  what  the  tray 
had  to  do  with  it. 

"  It  had  everything  to  do  wi't,"  said  Jess;  "  an' 
if  the  masons  had  kent  hoo  that  cradle  was  rockit, 
I  think  they  would  hae  killed  the  mestcr.  It  was 
Eppie  'at  found  oot,  an'  she  telt  naebody  but  me, 
though  mony  a  ane  kens  noo.  I  see  ye  canna 
mak  it  oot  yet,  so  I  '11  tell  ye  what  the  cradle 
was.  The  tray  was  keepit  against  the  kitchen 
wall  near  the  mestcr,  an'  he  played  on  't  wi'  his 
foot.  He  made  it  gang  bump  bump,  an'  the 
soond  was  juist  like  a  cradle  rockin'.  Ye  could 
hardly  believe  sic  a  thing  would  hae  made  that 
din,  but  it  did,  an'  ye  see  we  lay  in  our  beds 
hearkenin'  for 't.  Ay,  when  Eppie  telt  me,  I 
could  scarce  believe  'at  that  guid  devout-lookin' 
man  could  hae  been  sae  wicked.  Ye  see,  when 
he  found  hoo  terrified  we  a'  were,  he  keepit  it  up. 

126 


THE   GHOST   CRADLE. 

The  \vy  Eppie  ftnind  out  i'  the  tail  o'  the  day 
was  b\'  woiulerin'  at  'iin  sleepin'  sae  muckle  in 
the  da}-time.  He  did  that  so  as  to  be  fresh  for 
his  sport  at  nieht.  What  a  fine  releegious  man 
we  thocht  'ini  too  ! 

"  Eppie  couldna  bear  the  very  sicht  o'  the  tray 
after  that,  an'  she  telt  mc  to  break  it  up;  but  I 
keepit  it  ye  see.  The  hnnp  i'  the  middle  's  the 
mark,  as  ye  may  say,  o'  the  auld  man's  foot." 


127 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE   TRAGEDY    OF   A   WIFE. 

Were  Jess  still  alive  to  tell  the  life-story  of  Sam'l 
Fletcher  and  his  wife,  you  could  not  hear  it  and 
sit  still.  The  ghost  cradle  is  but  a  page  from  the 
black  history  of  a  woman  who  married,  to  be 
blotted  out  from  that  hour.  One  case  of  the 
kind  I  myself  have  known,  of  a  woman  so  good, 
mated  to  a  man  so  selfish,  that  I  cannot  think  of 
her  even  now  with  a  steady  mouth.  Hers  was 
the  tragedy  of  living  on,  more  mournful  than  the 
tragedy  that  kills.  In  Thrums  the  weavers  spoke 
of  "lousing"  from  their  looms,  removing  the 
chains,  and  there  is  something  woeful  in  that. 
But  pity  poor  Nanny  Coutts,  who  took  her  chains 
to  bed  with  her. 

Nanny  was  buried  a  month  or  more  before  I 
came  to  the  house  on  the  brae,  and  even  in 
Thrums  the  dead  are  seldom  remembered  for  so 

128 


THE   TRAGEDY   OF    A    WIFE. 

long  a  time  as  that.  But  it  was  only  after  Sanders 
was  left  alone  that  we  learned  what  a  w'oman  she 
had  been,  and  how  basely  we  had  wroni^ed  her. 
She  was  an  anfjeh  .Sanders  went  about  whininc^ 
when  he  had  no  Ioniser  a  woman  to  ill-treat.  He 
had  this  sentimental  wa}'  with  him,  but  it  lost  its 
effect  after  we  knew  the   man. 

"  A  deev'il  couldna  hae  deserx'ed  waur  treat- 
ment," Tammas  Ilagijart  said  to  him,  "  L;ani^  oot 
o'  my  sicht,  man." 

"  I  '11  blame  nu'sel  till  I  die,"  Jess  said,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "  for  no  understandin'  ]iuir 
Nann\-  better." 

So  Nanny  got  s\-mpathy  at  last,  but  not  until 
her  forgiving  soul  had  left  her  tortured  body. 
There  was  man}'  a  kindl\'  heart  in  Thrums  that 
woulil  ha\'e  gone  out  to  her  in  her  lifetime,  but 
we  could  not  ha\-e  loved  her  without  upbraiding 
him,  and  >he  woidd  not  bu\'  sympathx' at  the  price. 
What  a  little  stor\'  it  is,  and  how  few  words  are 
retpiired  to  tell  it!  Me  was  a  bad  husband  to  her, 
and  she  ke])t  it  secret.  That  is  Nanny's  life 
summed  up.  It  is  all  that  was  left  behind  when 
her  coffm  went  down  the  brae.  1  )id  she  love  him 
to  the  entl,  or  was  she  onl\' doing  what  she  thought 
9  129 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

her  duty?  It  is  not  for  mc  even  to  guess.  A  good 
woman  who  suffers  is  altogether  beyond  man's 
reckoning.  To  such  heights  of  self-sacrifice  we 
cannot  rise.  It  crushes  us;  it  ought  to  crush  us 
on  to  our  knees.  For  us  who  saw  Nanny,  infirm, 
shrunken,  and  so  weary,  yet  a  type  of  the  noblest 
womanhood,  suffering  for  years,  and  misunderstood 
her  to  the  end,  what  expiation  can  there  be?  I  do 
not  want  to  storm  at  the  man  who  made  her  life 
so  burdensome.  Too  many  years  have  passed  for 
that,  nor  would  Nanny  take  it  kindly  if  I  called  her 
man  names. 

Sanders  worked  little  after  his  marriage.  He 
had  a  sore  back,  he  said,  which  became  a  torture 
if  he  leant  forward  at  his  loom.  What  truth  there 
was  in  this  I  cannot  sa}',  but  not  every  weaver  in 
Thrums  could  "  louse  "  when  his  back  "rew  sore. 
Nanny  went  to  the  loom  in  his  place,  filling  as 
well  as  weaving,  and  he  walked  about,  dressed 
better  than  the  common,  and  with  cheerful  words 
for  those  who  had  time  to  listen.  Nanny  got  no 
approval  even  for  doing  his  work  as  well  as  her 
own,  for  they  were  understood  to  have  money,  and 
Sanders  let  us  think  her  merely  greedy.  We 
drifted   into  his  opinions. 

130 


THE   TRAGEDY    OF    A    WIFE. 

Had  Jess  been  one  oi  those  who  could  t^o  about, 
she  would,  I  think,  have  read  Nanny  better  than 
the  rest  of  us,  for  her  intellect  was  brit^ht,  and 
always  led  her  straii;iit  to  her  neii^hbours'  hearts. 
But  Nann\-  \isited  no  one,  and  so   Jess   onl\-  knew 


FILLING    IMKNS. 


her  by  hearsay.  Nanny's  stand-offishness,  as  it  was 
called,  was  not  a  i)ii|)ular  virtue,  and  she  was 
blamed  still  more  for  trying  to  keep  her  husband 
out  of  other   people's   houses.     lie   was  so   frank 

131 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

and  full  of  gossip,  and  she  was  so  reserv^ed.  He 
would  go  everywhere,  and  she  nowhere.  He  had 
been  known  to  ask  neighbours  to  tea,  and  she  had 
shown  that  she  wanted  them  away,  or  even  begged 
them  not  to  come.  We  were  not  accustomed  to 
go  behind  the  face  of  a  thing,  and  so  we  set  down 
Nanny's  inhospitality  to  churlishness  or  greed. 
Only  after  her  death,  when  other  women  had  to 
attend  him,  did  we  get  to  know  what  a  tyrant 
Sanders  was  at  his  own  hearth.  The  ambition  of 
Nanny's  life  was  that  we  should  nexer  know  it.  that 
we  should  continue  extolling  him,  and  sa)'  what 
we  chose  about  herself.  She  knew  that  if  we  went 
much  about  the  house  and  saw  how  he  treated  her, 
Sanders  would  cease  to  be  a  respected  man  in 
Thrums. 

So  neat  in  his  dress  was  Sanders,  that  he  was 
seldom  seen  abroad  in  corduroys.  His  blue  bonnet 
for  cxeryday  wear  was  such  as  even  well-to-do 
farmers  only  wore  at  fair-time,  and  it  was  said  that 
he  had  a  handkerchief  for  every  day  in  the  week. 
Jess  often  held  him  up  to  Hendry  as  a  model  of 
courtesy  and   polite   manners. 

"  Him  an'  Nanny  's  no  weel  matched,"  she  used 
to  say,  "  for  he  has  grand   ideas,  an'   she  's  o'   the 

132 


THF.    TRACxEDV    OF    A    WIFE. 

commonest.  It  maun  be  a  richt  trial  to  a  man  \vi' 
his  fine  tastes  to  hae  a  wife  'at's  wiajiper  's  ne\er 
even  on,  an'  uha  doesna  wash  her  mutch  aince  in 
a  month." 

It  is  true  that  Xann)-  was  a  slattern,  but  only 
because  she  married  into  sla\-er}-.  She  was  kept 
so  busy  washing  and  ironing  for  Sanders  that  she 
ceased  to  care  how  she  looked  herself.  What  did 
it  matter  whether  her  mutch  was  clean?  Weaving 
and  washing  and  cooking,  doing  the  work  of  a 
breadwinner  as  well  as  of  a  housewife,  hers  was 
soon  a  bod\'  prematurel\'  old,  on  which  no  wrapper 
would  sit  becomingly.  Before  her  face,  Sanders 
would  hint  that  her  slo\'enly  wa)-s  and  dress  tried 
him  sorel}',  and  in  compan\-  at  least  she  onl)-  Ijowetl 
her  head.  We  were  given  to  respecting  those  who 
worked  hard,  but  Xann\'.  we  thought,  was  a  woman 
of  means,  and  Sanders  let  us  call  her  a  miser.  I  le 
was  always  anxious,  he  said,  to  be  generous,  but 
\ann\'  would  not  let  him  assist  a  starxing  child. 
The}-  had  reall\-  not  a  peim\-  bex'oud  what  Nanny 
earned  at  the  loom,  and  now  we  know  how  Sanders 
shook  her  if  she  did  not  earn  enough.  His  x-anity 
was  responsible  for  the  st<»r}'  about  lu-r  wealth,  and 
she  would  not  ha\e  us  think  him  \ain. 

^33 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Because  she  did  so  much,  we  said  that  she  was 
as  strong  as  a  cart-horse.  The  doctor  who  attended 
her  during  the  last  week  of  her  hfe  discovered 
that  she  had  never  been  well.  Yet  we  had  often 
wondered  at  her  letting  Sanders  \nt  his  own 
potatoes  when   he  was  so  unable. 

"Them  'at 's  strong,  ye  see,"  Sanders  explained, 
"  doesna  ken  what  illness  is,  an'  so  it 's  nat'ral  they 
shouldna  sympathize  wi'  onweel  fowk.  Ay,  I  'm 
rale  thankfu'  'at  Nanny  keeps  her  health.  I  often 
envy  her." 

These  were  considered  creditable  sentiments, 
and  so  they  might  ha\'e  been  had  Nanny  uttered 
them.  Thus  easily  Sanders  built  up  a  reputation 
for  never  complaining.  I  know  now  that  he  was 
a  hard  and  cruel  man,  who  should  have  married  a 
shrew ;  but  while  Nanny  lived  I  thought  he  had 
a  beautiful  nature.  Many  a  time  I  have  spoken 
with  him  at  Hendry's  gate,  and  felt  the  better  of 
his  heartiness. 

"  I  mauna  complain,"  he  always  said  ;  "  na,  we 
maun  juist  fecht  awa." 

Little,  indeed,  had  he  to  complain  of,  and  little 
did  he  fight  away. 

Sanders  went  twice  to    church    every  Sabbath, 

134 


THE   TRAGEDY   OF   A    WIFE. 

and  thrice  when  he  got  the  chance.  There  was 
no  man  who  joined  so  histil\'  in  the  singing"  or 
looked  straighter  at  the  minister  during  the  [)ra}'er. 
I  ha\e  heard  the  minister  sa\'  that  Sanders's  con- 
stant attendance  was  an  encouragement  and  a  help 
to    him.     Nann}'    had    been    a    great    church-goer 


THE    AULD    LIGHT    KIRK. 


when  she  was  a  maiden,  but  after  her  marriage  she 
onl\^  went  in  the  afternoons,  and  a  time  came  when 
she  ceased  altogether  to  attend.  The  minister 
admonished  her  man\'  times,  telling  her,  among 
other    things,    that    her     irreligious    ways    were    a 

135 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

distress  to  her  husband.  She  never  rephed  that 
she  could  not  c;o  to  church  in  the  forenoon  because 
Sanders  insisted  on  a  hot  meal  being  waiting  him 
when  the  service  ended.  But  it  was  true  that 
Sanders,  for  appearances'  sake,  would  have  had 
her  go  to  church  in  the  afternoons.  It  is  now 
believed  that  on  this  point  alone  did  she  refuse  to 
do  as  she  was  bidden.  Nanny  was  very  far  from 
perfect,  and  the  reason  she  forsook  the  kirk  utterly 
was  because  she  had  no  Sabbath  clothes. 

She  died  as  she  had  lived,  sa)'ing  not  a  word 
when  the  minister,  thinking  it  his  dut\',  drew  a  cruel 
comparison  between  her  life  and  her  husband's. 

"  I  got  my  first  glimpse  into  the  real  state  of 
affairs  in  that  house,"  the  doctor  told  me  one 
night  on  the  brae,  "  the  day  before  she  died. 
'You  're  sure  there  's  no  hope  for  me?'  she  asked 
wistfull}',  and  when  I  had  to  tell  the  truth  she 
sank  back  on  the   pilh^w  with  a  look  of  joy." 

Nanny  died  with  a  lie  on  her  lips.  "  A\',"  she 
said,  "  Sanders  has  been  a  guid  man  to  me." 


136 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

MAKING    THE    BEST    OF    IT. 

Hexdrv  had  a  way  of  resuming  a  con\'crsation 
where  he  had  left  (^H  the  niglit  before.  He  would 
revolve  a  topic  in  his  mind,  too,  and  then  be^in 
ah^ud,  "  He's  a  queer  ane,"  o\\  "  Sa\')'e  so?  "  which 
was  at  times  perplexing;'.  With  the  whole  da)' 
before  them,  none  of  the  fainil}'  was  inclined  to 
waste  strenorth  in  talk;  but  one  niornintr  when  he 
was  blowini^^  the  steam  off  his  porridge,  Hendry 
said   suddenl}'  — 

"  He  's  hame  again." 

The  women-folk  ga\'e  him  time  to  sa\'  to  wlv)m 
he  was  referring,  which  he  occasionall\-  did  as  an 
after-thought.  But  he  began  to  sup  his  porridge, 
making  eyes  as  it  went  steaming  down  his  throat. 

"  I  dinna  ken  wha  yc  mean,"  Jess  said  ;  while 
Lccby,  who  was  on  hei'  knees  rubbing  the  lu'arth- 
stone  a  bright  blue,  paused  to  catch  her  father's 
answer. 

1.37 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Jeamcs  Geogchan,"   replied   Hendry,  with   the 
horn  spoon   in   his  mouth. 

Leeby  turned  to  Jess  for  enhghtenmcnt. 


EATlNf;    POKRHJGE. 

"  Geogehan,"  repeated  Jess;  "what,  no  httle 
Jeames  'at  ran  awa?" 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  he  's  a  muckle  stoot  man  noo,  an' 
gey  grey." 

"  Ou,  I  dinna  wonder  at  that.      It  's  a  guid  forty 

year  since  he  ran  off." 

138 


MAKING   THE   BEST   OF   IT. 

'*  I  waurant  ye  couldna  say  exact  hoo  lang  syne 
it  is?" 

HciKli'}'  asked  this  ciuestion  because  Jess  was 
notorious  for  her  niemor}',  and  he  i^loried  in  put- 
ting it  to  tile  test. 

"Let's  see,"  she  said. 

"But  wha  is  he?"  asked  Leeb}'.  "  I  never  kent 
nae  Geogelians  in   llirums." 

"  Weel,  it 's  fort)'-one  years  s}'ne  come  Michael- 
mas," said  Jess. 

"  Hoo  do  ye  ken?  " 

"  I  ken  fine.  Yc  mind  his  father  had  been 
lickin'  'im,  an'  lie  ran  awa  in  a  passion,  cr\'in'  oot 
'at  he  would  ne\'er  come  back?  Ay,  then,  he  had 
a  pair  o'  boots  on  at  the  time,  an'  his  father  ran 
after  'im  an'  tc^ok  tliL-m  aff  'im.  The  boots  was  the 
last  'at  Davie  Mearns  made,  an'  it 's  full\'  ane- 
an-forty  )'ears  since  Davie  fell  ower  the  quarry  on 
the  da\-  o'  the  hill-market.  That  settles 't.  A\', 
an'  Jeames  '11  be  turned  fift\'  noo,  for  he  was 
comin'  on  for  ten  \-car  auld  at  that  lime.  Ay,  ay, 
an'  he  's  come  back.  W  hat  a  state  Eppie  '11  be 
in!  " 

"Tell  's  wha  he;  is,  mother." 

"()(1,  he's   ICppie  Guthrie's  son.      Her  man  was 

139 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

William  Geogehan,  but  he  died  afore  you  was 
born,  an'  as  Jeames  was  their  only  bairn,  the  name 
o'  Geogehan  's  been  a  kind  o'  lost  sicht  o'.  Hae 
ye  seen  him,  Hendry?  Is't  true  'at  he  made  a 
fortune  in  thae  far-awa  countries?  Eppie  '11  be 
blawin'   aboot  him  richt?" 

"There's  nae  doubt  aboot  the  siller,"  said 
Hendr)%  "  for  he  drove  in  a  carriage  frae  Tillie- 
drum,  an'  they  say  he  needs  a  closet  to  hing  his 
claes  in,  there  's  sic  a  heap  o'  them.  Ay,  but  that 's 
no  a'  he  's  brocht,  na,  far  frae  a'." 

"  Dinna  gang  awa  till  )'e  've  telt 's  a'  aboot  'im. 
What  mair  has  he  brocht?  " 

"  He  's  brocht  a  wife,"  said  Hendrv^  twisting  his 
face  curiously. 

"  There  's  naething  surprisin'  in  that." 

"  Ay,  but  there  is,  though.  Ye  see,  Eppie  had 
a  letter  frae  'im  no  mony  weeks  syne,  sa}'in'  'at  he 
wasna  deid,  an'  he  was  comin'  hame  wi'  a  fortune. 
He  said,  too,  'at  he  was  a  single  man,  an'  she  's 
been  boastin'  aboot  that,  so  ye  ma}'  think  'at  she 
got  a  surprise  when  he  hands  a  wuman  oot  o'  the 
carriage." 

"  An'  no  a  pleasant  ane,"  said  Jess.  "  Had  he 
been  leein'?  " 

140 


MAKING   THE    BEST   OF   IT. 

"  Na,  he  was  single  wlien  he  wrote,  an'  single 
when  he  got  the  length  o'  Tilliedrum.  Ye  see,  he 
fell  in  \\i'  the  lassie  there,  an  juist  gaed  clean  aff 
his  held  aboot  her.  After  managin'  to  withstand 
the  women  o'  foreign  lands  for  a'  thae  years,  he 
gaed  fair  skeer  aboot  this  stock)-  at  Tilliedrum. 
She  's  juist  seventeen  }-ear  auld,  an'  the  auld  fule 
sits  wi'  his  airm  round  her  in  hippie's  hoose,  though 
they've  been  mairit  this  fortnicht." 

"  The  doited  fule,"  said  Jess. 

Jeames  Geogehan  and  his  bride  became  the 
talk  of  Thrums,  and  Jess  saw  them  from  her  win- 
dow several  times.  The  first  time  she  had  only 
eyes  for  the  jacket  with  fur  round  it  worn  b\'  Mrs. 
Geogehan,  but  subsequently  she   took   in    Jeames. 

"  He  's  tr\in'  to  carry  't  aff  wi'  his  heid  in  the  air," 
she  said,  "  but  I  can  see  he  's  fell  shamefaced,  an' 
nae  wonder.  Ay,  I  sepad  he  's  mair  ashamed  o't 
in  his  heart  than  she  is.  It's  an  awful  like  thing  o' 
a  lassie  to  marry  an  auld  man.  She  had  dune  't 
for  the  siller.  Ay,  there 's  pounds'  worth  o'  fur 
aboot  that  jacket." 

"  They  say  she  had  siller  liersel,"  said  Tibbie 
l>irse. 

"  Dinna  tell   me,"  said  Jess.      "  I    ken   b\'  her  wy 

J41 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

o'  carryin'  hersel  'at  she  never  had  a  jacket  like 
that  afore." 

Eppie  was  not  the  onl}'  person  in  Thrums 
whom  this  marriage  enraged.  Stories  had  long 
been  alive  of  Jeames's  fortune,  which  his  cousins' 
children  were  some  day  to  divide  among  them- 
selves, and  as  a  consequence  these  \'oung  men  and 
women  looked  on  Mrs.  Geogehan  as  a  thief. 

"  Dinna   bring   the  wife    to   our   hoose,  Jeames," 

one    of   them    told    him,   "  for    we   would    be    fair 

ashamed  to  hae  her.     We   used   to   hae  a   respect 

for    yer     name,    so    we    couldna    look     her    i'    the 

ace. 

"  She's  mair  like  yer  dochter  than  yer  wife," 
said  ant)ther. 

"  Na,"  said  a  third,  "  naebody  could  mistak  her 
for  )X'r  dochter.     She  's  ower  young-like  for  that." 

"  \Vi'  the  siller  you  '11  leave  her,  Jeames," 
Tammas  Haggart  told  him,  "  she  '11  get  a  younger 
man  for  her  second  venture." 

All  this  was  very  trying  to  the  newl}'-married 
man,  who  was  thirsting  for  symj^athy.  Hendry 
was  the  person  whom  he  took  into  his  confidence. 

"  It  ma\^  hae  been  foolish  at  ni)'  time  o'  life," 
Hendry  reported  him  to  have  said,  "  but  I  couldna 

142 


MAKING    THE    BEST   OF   IT. 

help  it.      If  lhc\-  juist  kcnt  her  bettor  they  couldna 
but  see  'at  siie  's  a  terrible  takkiii  erittur." 

Jeanies  was  generous;  indeed,  he  had  come 
home  with  the  intention  of  scattering  largess.  A 
beggar  met  him  one  da\-  i^n  the  brae,  and  got  a 
shilling  from  him.  She  was  wa\ing  her  arms 
triumphantl}'  as  she  passed  Hendry's  house,  and 
Leeb\'  got  the  stor\-  from   her. 

"  Eh,  he's  a  fine  man  that,  an'  a  saft  ane,"  the 
woman  said.  "  I  juist  speired  at  im  hoo  his 
bonn}'  wife  was,  an'   he  oot  wi'   a  shillin'  !  " 

Leeb\'  did  imt  keej)  this  news  to  herself,  and 
soon  it  was  through  the  town.  Jeames's  face  began 
to  brighten. 

"They're  comin'  round  to  a  mair  sensible  wy 
o'  lookin'  at  things,"  he  told  Hendry.  "  I  was 
walkin'  wi'  the  w  ife  i'  the  bur}'in'  ground  yesterday, 
an'  we  met  Kitt\'  McQueen.  She  was  ane  o'  the 
vvarst  agin  me  at  first,  but  she  telt  me  i'  the 
bur\in'  ground  'at  when  a  man  mairit  he  should 
please  'imsel.      Oh,  the\' 're  comin'  round." 

What  Kitt\-  told  Jess  was  — 

"  I  minded  o'  the  tinkler  wuman  'at  he  gac  a 
slfillin'  to,  so  T  thocht  I  would  butter  up  at  the 
auld  fule  too.      W'eel,  I    assure  w,  T    had  nae  suner 

143 


A    WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

said  'at  he  was  rale  wise  to  niarr)-  wlia  lie  likit  tlian 
he  sHps  a  pound  note  into  m\'  hand  Ou,  Jess, 
we  've  taen  the  wrans^  w\'  wi'  Jeames.  I  've  telt  a' 
m\'  bairns  'at    if  they   meet   him    they  're  to  praise 


IN    THE    OLD    BURYING    GROUND 


the  wife  terrible,  an'  I  'm  far  mistaen  if  that  doesna 
mean  five  sliillins  to  ilka  ane  o'  them." 

Jean  Whamontl  L;'ot  a  j^ound  note  for  saying 
that  Jeames's  wife  had  an  uncommon  prctt\'  voice, 
and  Davit  Lunan  had  ten  shilliuL^s  for  a  judicious 
word  about  her  attractive  manners.     Tibbie  Birse 

144 


MAKING   THE   BEST   OF   IT. 

iinitctl     the     nc\vl_\--man'ied     couple    to    tea     (one 
pouiul). 

"  The>' 're  takkin  to  her,  tlie}' 're  takkin  to  her," 
Jeanies  said  gleefull)'.  "  I  kent  the}'  would  come 
round  in  time.  A}",  even  m\'  mother,  "at  was  sae 
mad  at  first,  sits  for  hours  noo  aside  her,  haudin' 
her  hand.      The}' 're  juist  inseparable." 

The  time  came  when  we  had  IMr.  and  Mrs. 
Geogehan  and   h^j^ipie  to  tea. 

"  It 's  true  enough,"  Leeb\'  ran  ben  to  tell  Jess, 
"  at  Eppie  an'  the  wife  's  fond  o'  ane  another.  I 
W(Tuldna  hae  believed  it  o'  Eppie  if  I  hadna  seen 
it,  but  I  assure  ye  they  sat  even  at  the  tea-table 
haudin'  ane  another's  hands.  I  waurant  they're 
doin't  this  meenute." 

"  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath,"  retorted  Jess. 
"  Na,  na,  dinna  tell  me  Eppie 's  f(^ntl  o"  her.  Tell 
l'.pi)ie  to  come  but  to  the  kitchen  when  the  tea  's 
ower.  " 

Jess  and  Eppie  had  half  an  hour's  conversation 
alone,  and  then  our  guests  left. 

"It's  a  richt  guid  thing,"  said  Hendry,  '''at 
lCp])ie   has  taen   sic   a  notion  o'  the   wife." 

"  (  )u,  a_\',"  said  Jess. 

Then  llendr)-  hobbled  out  of  the  house. 
10  ,45 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

"What  said  P2ppie  to  ye?"  Lecby  asked  her 
mother. 

"  Juist  what  I  expeckit,"  Jess  answered.  "  Ye 
see  she 's  dependent  on  Jeames,  so  she  has  to 
butter  up   at  'im." 

"Did  she  say  onything  aboot  haudin'  the  wife's 
hand  sae  fond-lilce?  " 

"  Ay,  she  said  it  was  an  awfu'  trial  to  lier,  an'  'at 
it  sickened  her  to  see  Jeames  an'  the  wife  baith 
behevin'  'at  she   likit  to  do  't." 


146 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

VISITORS    AT    'II IE    MANSE. 

On  bringinij^  home  his  bride,  the  minister  showed 
her  to  us,  and  we  thouL;"ht  she  would  do  when 
she  rcahzed  that  she  was  not  the  minister.  She 
was  a  i^rand  lad\-  h-om  Edinburgh,  though  very 
frank,  and  we  simple  folk  amused  her  a  good 
deal,  especially  when  we  were  sitting  cowed  in  the 
manse  parlour  drinking  a  dish  of  tea  with  her,  as 
happened  to  Eeeb_\'.  her  father,  and  me,  three  days 
before  Jamie  came  home. 

Leeby  had  refused  to  be  drawn  into  conversa- 
tion, like  one  who  knew  her  place,  yet  all  her 
actions  were  genteel  and  her  monos)'llabic  replies 
in  the  Englishy  tongue,  as  of  one  who  was,  after 
all,  a  little  abo\'e  the  common.  When  the  minis- 
ter's wife  asked  her  whether  she  took  sugar  and 
cream,  she  said  politel\%  "  If  you  please"  (though 
shr  did  not  take  sugar),  a  repl\'  that  contrasted 
with   Ilendr)^'s  cquall\-  well-intendetl   answer  to  the 

147 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

same   question.      "  I  'm    no    partikler,"    was    what 
Hendry  said. 

Hendi'}'  liad  left  home  ghimly,  declarin<:^  that 
the  white  coHar  Jess  had  put  on  him  would  throt- 
tle him  ;    but  her  feikieness  ended  in  his  sm'render, 


THE    MANSE. 


anil  he  was  looking;  unusuall}'  perjink.  Had  not 
his  daughter  been  present  he  would  have  been 
the  most  at  ease  of  the  company;  but  her  man- 
ners were  too  fine  not  to  make  an  impression  upon 
one  who  knew  her  on  her  everyday  behaviour, 
and    she    had    also  wa)'s    of   bringing    Hendry    to 

148 


VISITORS    AT   THE    MANSE. 

himself  b}'  a  touch  beneath  the  table.  It  was  in 
church  that  Leeb}^  brous^ht  to  perfection  her  man- 
ner of  looking;"  after  her  father.  When  he  hatl 
conficlence  in  the  preacher's  st)uiKlness,  he  woukl 
sometimes  have  slept  in  his  pew  if  Leeby  had  not 
had  a  watchful  foot.  She  wakened  him  in  an 
instant,  while  still  lookiuL^  m<^destl\-  at  the  pulpit; 
howe\er  re\'erentl\'  he  mis^ht  tr}'  to  tall  over, 
Leeby's  foot  went  out.  She  was  such  an  artist 
that  I  ne\'er  caus^ht  her  in  the  act.  All  I  knew 
for  certain  was  that  now  and  then  Hendr}'  sud- 
denl}'  sat  up. 

The  ordeal  was  over  when  Leeb\'  went  upstairs 
to  put  on  her  things.  After  tea  Hendr\'  had 
become  bolder  in  talk,  his  subject  being  minis- 
terial. He  liad  an  extraordinar\-  knowlcilge,  got 
no  one  knew  where,  of  the  matrimonial  affairs  of 
all  the  ministers  in  these  parts,  and  his  stories 
about  them  ended  frequently  with  a  chuckle.  He 
always  took  it  for  granted  that  a  minister's  mar- 
riage was  w  (imanhood's  great  tiium|)h,  and  that 
the  particular  wouian  who  got  him  must  be  very 
clever.  Some  of  his  tales  were  even  more  curious 
than  In-  thought  them,  such  as  the  one  Leeby 
tried    to    interrupt  by  saying  we    must    be    g't>iii^- 

149 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  There 's  Mr.  Pennycuick,  noo,"  said  Hendry, 
shaking  liis  head  in  wonder  at  what  he  had  to  teh  ; 
"  him  'at  's  minister  at  Tilhedrum.  W'eel,  when 
he  was  a  probationer  he  was  michty  poor,  an' 
one    day  he  was  walkin'     into  Thrums    frae    Glen 


A    LITTLE    HOUSEY    IN    GLEN    QUHARITY. 


Ouliarity,  an'  he  taks  a  rest  at  a  h'ttlc  housey 
on  the  road.  The  fowk  dichia  ken  liini  ava.  but 
they  saw  he  was  a  minister,  an'  the  Lassie  was 
sorry  to  see  him  wi'  sic  an  auld  hat.  What 
tliink  ye    she    did? " 

150 


VISITORS    AT  THK   MANSE. 

"  Conic  aw  ay,  fatlicr,"  said  Lecby,  re-entering 
the  parlour;  but  Hendry  was  now  in  full  pursuit 
of  his  stor}-. 

"  I  '11  tell  \'e  what  she  did,"  he  continued. 
"  She  juist  took  his  hat  awa  an'  put  her  father's 
new  ane  in  its  place,  an'  Mr.  Penn\cuick  never 
kent  the  differ  till  he  landed  in  Thrums.  It  was 
terrible  kind  o'  her.  A}',  but  the  auld  man  would 
be  in  a  micht\-  rai^e  when  he  found  she  had 
swappit  the  hats." 

"  Come  awa}-,"  said  Leeb\-.  still  politel}',  though 
she  was  burning  to  tell  her  mother  how  Hendry 
had  disgraced  them. 

"  The  minister,"  said  Hendr\-,  turning  his  back 
on  Leeb}',  "  didna  forget  the  lassie.  Na  ;  as  sune  as 
he  got  a  kirk,  he  inarried  her.  A}',  she  got  her  re- 
ward.     He  married  her.      It  was  rale  noble  o'  'im." 

I  do  not  know  what  Leeby  said  to  Hendry 
when  she  got  him  be}-ond  the  manse  gate,  for  I 
sta\'ed  behind  to  talk  to  the  minister.  As  it 
turned  out,  the  minister's  wife  did  most  of  the  talk- 
ing, smiling  good-humouredU-  at  country  gawki- 
ncss  the  while. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sure  T  shall  like  Thrums, 
thdugh  those  teas  to  the  congregation   are  a  \\ii\r 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

tr}'ing.  Do  you  know,  Thrums  is  the  only  place 
I  was  ever  in  where  it  struck  me  that  the  men  are 
cleverer  than  the  women." 

She  told  us  wh\'. 

"  Well,  to-night  affords  a  case  in  point.  Mr. 
McOumpha  was  quite  brilliant,  was  he  not,  in  com- 
parison with  his  daughter?  RealK',  she  seemed  so 
put  out  at  being  at  the  manse  that  she  could  not 
raise  her  eyes.  I  question  if  she  would  know  me 
again,  and  I  am  sure  she  sat  in  the  room  as  one 
blindfolded.  1  left  her  in  the  bedroom  a  minute, 
and  I  assure  you,  when  I  returned  she  was  still 
standing  on  the  same  spot  in  the  centre  of  the 
floor." 

I  pointed  out  that  Lecb}'  had  been  awestruck. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said ;  '  but  it  is  a  pity 
she  cannot  make  use  of  her  eyes,  if  not  of  her 
tongue.  Ah,  the  Thrums  women  are  good,  I 
believe,  but  their  wits  are  sadl\'  in  need  of  sharp- 
ening. I  dare  say  it  comes  of  living  in  so  small 
a  place." 

I  overtook  Leeby  on  the  brae,  aware,  as  I  saw 
her  alone,  that  it  had  been  her  father  whom  I 
passed  talking  to  Tammas  Haggart  in  the  Square. 
Hendry   stopped  to  have    what  he   called   a   tove 

152 


VISITORS   AT   THE    MANSE. 

with  ail}'  likely  person  he  encountered,  and,  in- 
deed. thouL;"h  he  and  I  often  took  a  walk  on  Sat- 
urda\-s.  I  ^enerall)-  lost  him  before  we  were  clear 
of  the  town. 


AT   THE   GATE    OF    THE   COMMONTY. 


In  a  few  moments  Leeby  and  I  were  at  home 
to  give  Jess  the  news. 

"Whaur's  yer  father?"  asked  Jess,  as  if  Hen- 
dry's way  of  dropping  behind  was  still  unknown 
t(j   her. 

153 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

"  Ou,  I  left  him  spcakin'  to  Gavin  Birsc,"  said 
Leeby.     "  I  daursay  he  's  awa  to  some  hoose." 

"  It  's  no  ver}'  silvend}'  his  comin'  ower  the 
brae  by  himsel,"  said  Jess,  adding"  in  a  bitter  tone 
of  conviction,  "  but  he  '11  gang  in  to  no  hoose  as 
lang  as  he's  so  weel  dressed.  Na,  he  would  think 
it  boastfu'." 

I  sat  down  to  a  book  by  the  kitchen  fire;  but, 
as  Leeby  became  communicative,  I  read  less  and 
less.  While  she  spoke  she  was  baking  bannocks 
with  all  the  might  of  her,  and  Jess,  leaning  for- 
ward in  her  chair,  was  arranging  them  in  a  semi- 
circle round  the  fire. 

"  Na,"  was  the  first  remark  of  Leeby's  that  came 
between  me  and  my  book,  "  it  is  no  new  furniture." 

"  But  there  was  three  cart-loads  o't,  Leeby, 
sent  on  frae  I^dinbor)-.  Tibbie  Birse  helj^it  to  lift 
it  in,  and  she  said  the  parlour  furniture  beat  a'." 

"  Ou,  it  's  substantial,  but  it  is  no  new.  I  sepad 
it  had  been  bocht  cheap  second-hand,  for  the 
chair  I  had  was  terrible  scratched  like,  an',  what's 
mair,  the  airm-chair  was  a  heap  shinnier  than  the 
rest. 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  wager  it  had  been  new  stuffed. 
Tibbie  said  the  carpet  cowed  for  grandeur  ! 

154 


VISITORS   AT   THE   MANSE. 

"Oh,  I  ilinna  deny  it's  a  Gjuid  carpet;  but  if 
it's  been  turned  cmce  it's  been  turned  half  a 
dozen  times,  so  it  's  far  frae  new.  A\-,  an'  forb\-, 
it  was  rale  threadbare  aneath  the  table,  so  )'e 
may  be  sure  they've  been  cuttin'  't  an'  puttin'  the 
worn   pairt  whaur  it  would   be  least  seen." 

"  The}'  sa\-  'at  there  's  twa  grand  gas  brackets 
i'  the  parlour,  an'  a  wondcrfu'  gasolier\-  i'  the 
dinin'-room?  " 

"  We  wasna  i'  the  dinin'-room,  so  I  ken  nae- 
thinsf  aboot  the  gasolier\- ;  but  I  '11  tell  ve  what 
the  gas  brackets  is.  I  recognized  them  imme- 
ditl>-.  Yc  mind  the  auld  gasolier\'  i'  the  dinin'- 
room  had  twa  lichts?  A}-,  then,  the  parlour 
brackets  is  made  oot  o'  the  auld   gasoliery." 

"  Weel,  Leeb)%  as  sure  as  ye 're  standin'  there, 
that  passed  through  nu"  head  as  sune  as  Tibbie 
mentioned   them  ! 

"There's  nae  doot  about  it.  Ay,  I  was  in  ane 
o'  the  bedrooms,  too  ! 

"  It  would   be  grand?  " 

"  I  wouldna  sa}'  'at  it  was  partikler  grand,  but 
there  was  a  great  mask  o'  things  in 't,  an'  near 
everything  was  covered  wi'  cretonne.  Kut  the 
chairs  dinna   match.     There    was    a    ver)'    bonn\'- 

155 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

painted  cloth  alang  the  chimlcy  —  what  they  call 
a  mantelpiece  border,  I  warrant." 

"Sal,  I  've  often  wondered  what  they  was." 

"Weel,  I  assure  ye  they  winna  be  ill  to  niak. 
for  the  border  was  juist  nailed  upon  a  board 
laid  on  the  chimlcy.  There  's  naething  to  ben- 
der 's  makin'  ane  for  the  room." 

"  Ay,  we  could  sew  something  on  the  border 
instead  o'  paintin't.  The  room  lookit  weel,  3'e 
say?" 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  economically  furnished.  There 
was  nae  carpet  below  the  wax-cloth ;  na,  there 
was  nane  below  the  bed  either." 

"  Was  't  a  grand  bed  ?  " 

"  It  had  a  fell  lot  o'  brass  aboot  it,  but  there 
was  juist  one  pair  o'  blankets.  I  thocht  it  was 
gey  shabby,  haen  the  ewer  a  different  pattern 
frae  the  basin  ;  ay,  an'  there  was  juist  a  poker  in 
the  fireplace,  there  was  nae  tangs." 

"  Yea,  yea ;  they  '11  hae  but  one  set  o'  bed- 
room fire-irons.  The  tangs  '11  be  in  anither  room. 
Tod,  that's  no  sae  michty  grand  for  Edinbory. 
What  like  was  she  hersel?" 

"  Ou,  very  ladylike  and  saft  spoken.  She  's  a 
canty  body  an'  frank.     She  wears  her  hair  low  on 


VISITORS    AT  THE    MANSE. 

the  left  side  to  hod  a  scar,  an'  there  's  twa  warts 
on  her  richt  hand." 

"  There  hadna  been  a  fire  i'  the  parlour?  " 

"  No,  but  it  was  read}'  to  licht.  There  was 
sticks  and  paper  in  't.  The  paper  was  oot  o'  a 
dressmaker's  journal." 

"Ye  say  so?  She'll  mak  her  ain  frocks,  I 
sepad." 

When  Hcndr\'  entered  to  take  ofi"  his  collar  and 
coat  before  sitting  down  to  his  evening  meal  of 
hot  water,  porter,  and  bread  mixed  in  a  bowl, 
Jess  sent  mc  oft"  to  the  attic.  As  I  climbed  the 
stairs  1  remembered  that  the  minister's  wife 
thought  Leeb)'  in  need   of  sharpening. 


^57 


CHAPTER   XV. 

HOW    GAVIN    BIRSE    PUT   IT   TO    MAG    LOWNIE. 

In  a  wet  day  the  rain  gathered  in  blobs  on  the 
road  that  [passed  our  garden.  Then  it  crawled 
into  the  cart-tracks  until  the  road  was  streaked 
with  water.  Lastl}',  the  water  gathered  in  heavy 
yellow  pools.  If  the  on-ding  still  continued,  clods 
of  earth  toppled  h'om  the  garden  dyke  into  the 
ditch. 

On  such  a  dav,  when  even  the  dulseman  had 
gone  into  shelter,  and  the  women  scudded  by  with 
their  wrappers  over  their  heads,  came  Gavin  Birse 
to  our  door.  Gavin,  who  was  the  Glen  Ouharit)' 
post,  was  still  young,  but  had  never  been  quite  the 
same  man  since  some  amateurs  in  the  glen  ironed 
his  back  for  rheumatism.  I  thought  he  had  called 
to  have  a  crack  with  me.  He  sent  his  compli- 
ments up  to  the  attic,  however,  by  Leeby,  and 
would   I   come  and   be  a  witness? 


HOW   GAVIN    PUT   IT   TO    MA(;    LOWNIE. 

Gavin  came  up  and  explained.  He  had  taken 
ofif  his  scarf  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  lest  the 
rain  should  take  the  colour  out  of  it.  His  boots 
cheeped,  and  his  shoulders  had  risen  to  his  ears. 
He  stood  steaming  before  my  fire. 


^  :i'd 


<\ 


THK    OARDEN    DYKE. 

"  If  it's  no  ower  mucklc  to  ask  ye,"   he  said,  "  I 

would  like  ye  for  a  witness." 

"  i\    witness!        Hut    for    what    do    you    need    .1 

witness,  Gavin?  " 

159 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  I  want  ye,"  he  said,  "  to  come  \vi'  mc  to  Mag's, 
and  be  a  witness." 

Gavin  and  Mag  Birse  had  been  engaged  for  a 
year  or  more.  Mag  was  the  daughter  of  Janet 
Ogilvy,  who  was  best  remembered  as  the  body 
that  took  the  hill  (that  is,  wandered  about  it)  for 
tweh'e  hours  on  the  day  Mr.  Dishart,  the  Auld 
Licht  minister,  accepted  a  call  to  another  church. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Gavin,"  I  asked, 
"  that  your  marriage  is  to  take  place  to-day?  " 

By  the  twist  of  his  mouth  I  saw  that  he  was  only 
deferring  a  smile. 

"  Far  frae  that,"  he  said. 

"  Ah,  then,  you  have  quarrel'-xl,  and  I  am  to 
speak  up  for  you  ?  " 

"  Na,  na,"  he  said,  "  I  dinna  want  ye  to  do  that 
above  all  things.  It  would  be  a  favour  if  ye  could 
gie  me  a  bad  character." 

This  beat  me,  and  I  dare  say  my  face  showed   it. 

"  I  "m  no'  juist  what  ye  would  call  anxious  to 
marry  Mag  noo,"  said  Gavin   without  a  tremor. 

I  told  him  to  go  on. 

"  There  's  a  lassie  oot  at  Craigiebucklc,"  he 
explained,  "  workin'  on  the  farm, — Jeanie  Luke 
by  name.     Ye  may  hae  seen  her?" 

i6o 


HOW    GAVIX    PUT    IT   TO    MAG   LOWNIE. 

"What  of  licr?"  I  asked  severely. 
"Weel,"    said     Gavin,     still     unabashed,     "I'm 
thinkin'   noo   'at  I  would   rather  hac  her." 
Then  he  stated  his  case  more  full}-. 
"  A\',  I  thocht  I  liked  Mag  oncommon  till  I  saw 


CKAIGIKBUCKI.E    FARM. 


Jeanie,  an'  I  like  her  fine  yet,  but  T  prefer  the  other 
ane.  That  state  o'  matters  canna  gang  on  for  ever, 
so  I  came  into  Thrums  the  day  to  settle 't  one  wy 
or  another." 

"And   how,"  T    asked,  "do   }-ou    pi'opose   going 
about  it?      It  is  a  somewhat  delicatr  business." 
'I  i6i 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"On,  I  see  nae  great  difficult}'  in 't.  I  '11  speir 
at  Mag,  blunt  oot,  if  she  '11  let  me  aff.  Yes,  I  '11 
put  it  to  her  plain." 

"  You  're  sure  Jeanie  would  take  )'ou  ?  " 
"  Ay;  oh.  there  's  nae  fear  o'  that." 
"  But  if  Mag  keeps  }-ou  to  your  bargain?  " 
"  Weel,  in  that  case  there's  nae  harm  done." 
"  You  are  in  a  great  hurry,  Gavin?  " 
"Ye  may  sa\'  that;   but   I   want  to  be  married. 
The  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  canna  last  lang,  an'  I  would 
like  to  settle  doon  in  some  place." 

"  So  you  are  on  your  way  to  Mag's  now?  " 
"  Av,  we  '11  get  her  in  atwecn  twal'  and  ane." 
"  Oh,  }'es ;    but  why  do  you  w^ant  me  to  go  with 
you  ? 

"  I  want  ye  for  a  witness.  If  she  winna  let  me  aff, 
weel  and  guid  ;  and  if  she  will,  it 's  better  to  hae  a 
witness  in  case  she  should  go  back  on  her  word." 

Gavin  made  his  proposal  briskl}',  and  as  coolly 
as  if  he  were  onl\'  asking  me  to  go  fishing;  but  I 
did  not  accompany  him  to  Mag's.  He  left  the 
house  to  look  for  another  witness,  and  about  an 
hour  afterwards  Jess  saw  him  pass  with  Tammas 
Haggart.  Tammas  cried  in  during  the  evening  to 
tell  us  how  the  mission  prospered. 

162 


HOW    GAVIN    PUT   11'   ^1"0    MAG    LOWNIE. 

"  Miiul  }-c,"  said  Tammas,  a  drop  of  water 
hangiiiL^  to  the  point  of  his  nose,  "  I  disclaim  all 
responsibilit}'  in  the  business.  I  ken  Mag  weel 
for  a  thrift}',  respectable  woman,  as  her  mither  was 
afore  her,  and  so  I  said  to  Gavin  when  he  came  to 
speir  me." 

"  Ay,  mony  a  pirn  has  'Lisbeth  filled  to  me,"  said 
Hendr}^  settling  down  to  a  reminiscence. 

"No  to  be  owcr  hard  on  Gax'in,"  continued 
Tammas,  forestalling  Hendry,  "  he  took  what  I 
said  in  guid  part;  but  aye  when  I  stopped  speakin' 
to  draw  breath,  he  says,  '  llie  qucistion  is,  will  }'e 
come  wi'  me?'  lie  was  micht}^  made  up  in 's 
muul. 

"Weel,  3'e  went  wi'  him,"  suggested  Jess,  who 
wanted  to  bring  Tammas  to  the  point. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  stonebreaker,  "  but  no  in  sic  a 
hurrv  as  that." 

He  worketl  his  mouth  round  and  round  to  clear 
the  course,  as  it  were,  for  a  sarcasm. 

"  ]'^)wk  ofirn  say,"  he  continued,  "  'at  'am  qm'ck 
bcN'ond  the  ordinar'  in  seein'  the  humorous  side 
o   things. 

Here  Tammas  j^aused,  and  looked  at  us. 

"So  yc  are,  Tammas,"  said   ]lendr\-.       "  Losh, 

163 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

ye  mind  hoo  ye  saw  the  humorous  side  o'  me 
wearin'  a  pair  o'  boots  'at  wisna  marrows  !  No,  the 
ane  had  a  toe-piece  on,  an'  the  other  hadna." 


THE    STONEBKEAKER. 


"  Ye  juist  wore  them  sometimes  when  ye  was 
delvin',"  broke  in  Jess;  "ye  have  as  guid  a  pair  o' 
boots  as  on\^  in  Thrums." 

"  Ay,  but  I   had  worn  them,"  said   Hendry,  "  at 

164 


HOW   GAVIN    PUT    IT  TO  MAG    LOWNIE. 

odd  times  for  niair  iIkui  a  \car,  an'  I  had  never 
seen  the  humorous  side  o'  them.  Weel,  as  fac  as 
death  (here  he  addressed  me),  Tammas  had  juist 
seen  them  twa  or  three  times  when  he  saw  the 
humorous  side  o'  them.  S\'ne  I  saw  their  humor- 
ous  side,  too,  but  no  till  Tammas  pointed  it  oot." 

"That  was  naething,"  said  Tammas,  "  naething 
ava  to  some  things  I  've  done." 

"  But  what  aboot  Mag?"  said  Leeby. 

"We  wasna  that  length,  was  we?  "  said  Tammas. 
"  Na,  we  was  speakin'  aboot  the  humorous  side. 
A\',  wait  a  wee,  I  didna  mention  the  humorous  side 
for  naething." 

He  paused  to  reflect. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  at  last,  brightening  up,  "  I 
was  sa\'in'  to  \-e  hoo  quick  I  was  to  see  the 
humorous  side  o'  on}'thing.  Ay,  then,  wliat  made 
me  sa\'  that  was  'at  in  a  clink  I  saw  the  humorous 
side  o'  Ga\in's  position." 

"Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  admiringly,  "and 
what  is  't?  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  this,  there's  something  humorous  in 
speirin'  a  woman  to  let  \-e  aff  so  as  ve  can  be 
married   to   another  woman." 

"  I  daursax'  there  is,"  said  Ilendi)-,  doubtfully. 

'65 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Did  she  let  him  aff?  "  asked  Jess,  taking  the 
words  out  of  Leeby's  mouth. 

"  I  'm  comin'  to  that,"  said  Tammas.  "  Gavin 
proposes  to  me  after  I  had  haen  my  laugh  —  " 

"  Yes,"  cried  Hendry,  banging  the  table  with  his 
fist,  "  it  has  a  humorous  side.  Ye  're  richt  again, 
Tammas." 

"  I  wish  ye  wadna  blatter  the  table,"  said  Jess, 
and  then  Tammas  proceeded. 

"  Gavin  wanted  me  to  tak  paper  an'  ink  an'  a 
pen  wi'  me,  to  write  the  proceedin's  doon,  but  I 
said,  '  Na,  na,  I  '11  tak  paper,  but  no  nae  ink  nor 
nae  pen,  for  there  '11  be  ink  an'  a  pen  there.'  That 
was  what  I  said." 

"  An'  did  she  let  him  aff?  "  asked  Leeby. 

"  Weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  aff  we  goes  to  Mag's 
hoose,  an'  sure  enough  Mag  was  in.  She  was 
alane,  too;  so  Gavin,  no  to  waste  time,  juist  sat 
doon  for  politeness'  sake,  an'  syne  rises  up  again ; 
an'  says  he,  '  Margct  Lownie,  I  hae  a  solemn 
question  to  speir  at  )'e,  namely  this.  Will  you, 
Marget  Lownie,  let  me,  Gax'in  Birse,  aff? 

"  Mag  would  start  at  that?  " 

"  Sal,  she  was  braw  an'  cool.  I  thocht  she  maun 
hae  got  wind  o'   his  intentions  aforehand,  for  she 

i66 


HOW    GAVIN    PUT   IT   TO    MAG   LOWNIE. 

juist  replies,  quiet-like,  '  Hoo  do  ye  want  aff, 
Ga\in? ' 

"  '  Because,'  says  he.  like  a  book,  '  my  affections 
has  undcrLyone  a  change.' 

"  '  Ye  mean  Jean  Luke,'  says  Mag. 

"'That  is  wlia  I  mean,'  says  Gavin,  very 
straitforrard." 

"  But  she  didna  let  him  aff,  did  she?  " 

"  Na,  she  wasna  the  kind.  Says  she,  '  I  wonder 
to  hear  ye,  Gavin,  but  'am  no  goin'  to  agree  to 
naething  o'  that  sort.' 

"  '  Think  it  ower,'  says  Gavin. 

"  '  Na,  my  mind  's  made  up,'  said  she. 

" '  Ye  \\ould  sune  get  anither  man,'  he  says 
earnestly. 

"  '  Hoo  do  I  ken  that?  '  she  speirs,  rale  sensibly, 
I  thocht,  for  men  's  no  sae  easy  to  get. 

"  '  'Am  sure  o't,'  Gavin  says,  wi'  micht\'  convic- 
tion in  his  voice,  '  for  ye  're  bonny  to  look  at,  an' 
weel-kent  for  bein'  a  guid  body.' 

"  '  Ay,'  says  Mag,  '  I  'm  glad  ye  like  me,  Gavin, 
for  \-e  have  to  tal'C  me.'  " 

"  That  put  a  clincher  t)n  him,"  interrupted 
1  lendr\'. 

"He  was  loth   to   gie   in,"  replied  Tammas,  "  so 

167 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

he  says,  '  Yc  think  'am  a  fine  character,  Marge! 
Lownic,  but  ye  're  very  far  mistaen.  I  wouldna 
wonder  but  what  I  was  lossin'  my  place  some  o' 
thae  days,  an'  syne  whaur  would  ye  be?  —  Marget 
Lownie,'  he  goes  on,  '  'am  nat'rally  lazy  an'  fond  o' 
the  drink.  As  sure  as  yc  stand  there,  'am  a  reg'lar 
deevil  !  '  " 


OLD    THATCHED    COTTAGliS. 


"  That  was  strong  language,"  said  Hendry,  "  but 
he  would  be  wantin'  to  flcg  her?  " 

"  Juist  so ;  but  he  didna  manage  't,  for  Mag  says, 
'  We  a'  hae  oor  faults,  Gavin,  an'  deevil  or  no 
deevil,  ye  're  the  man  for  me  !  ' 

1 68 


HOW   GAVIN    PUT    IT   TO    MAG    LOWNIE. 

"Gavin  thocht  a  bit,"  continued  Tammas,  "an* 
syne  he  tries  her  on  a  new  tack.  '  Marget  Lownie,' 
he  sa\'s,  '  ye're  father  's  an  .luld  man  noo,  an'  lie 
has  nacbody  but  \'ersel  to  look  after  him.  I  'm 
thinkin'  it  would  be  kind  o'  cruel  o'  me  to  tak  ye 
awa  frae  him? 

"Mag  wouldna  be  taen  in  wi'  that;  she  wasna 
born  on  a  Sawbath,"  said  Jess,  using  one  of  her 
favourite  sayings. 

"  She  wasna,"  answered  Tammas.  "  Says  she, 
'  Hae  nae  fear  on  that  score,  Ga\in  ;  m\'  father  's 
fine  w  illin'  to  spare  me  !  '  " 

"An   that  ended  it?  " 

"  Ay,  that  ended  it." 

"  Did  ye  tak  it  doon  in  writin'?  "  asked  Hendry. 

"  There  was  nae  need,"  said  Tammas,  handing 
round  his  snuff-mull.  "  No,  I  never  touched  paper. 
When  I  saw  the  thing  was  settled.  I  left  them  to 
their  coortin'.  They  're  to  tak  a  look  at  Snecky 
Hobart's  auld  hoose  the  nicht.     It 's  to  let." 


169 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE   SON   FROM    LONDON. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  there  used  to  come  to 
Thrums  a  painter  from  nature  whom  Hendry 
spoke  of  as  the  drawer.  He  lodged  with  Jess  in 
my  attic,  and  when  the  weaxers  met  him  they  said, 
"  Weel,  drawer,"  and  then  passed  on,  grinning. 
Tammas  Haggart  was  the  first  to  sav  this. 

Hie  drawer  was  held  a  poor  man  because  he 
straggled  about  the  countr\'  looking  for  subjects 
for  his  draws,  and  Jess,  as  was  her  way,  gave  him 
many  comforts  for  which  she  would  not  charge. 
That,  I  dare  say.  was  why  lie  painted  for  her  a 
little  portrait  of  Jamie.  When  the  drawer  came 
back  to  Thrums  he  always  found  the  painting  in 
a  frame  in  the  room.  Here  I  must  make  a  con- 
fession abiiut  Jess.  She  did  not  in  her  secret 
mind  think  the  portrait  quite  the  thing,  and  as 
soon  as  the  drawer  departed  it  was  removed  from 
the  frame  to   make  way  for  a  calendar.     The  de- 

170 


THE   SON    FROM    LONDON. 

ccption  was  \ery  innocent,  Jess  being  anxious  not 
to  hurt  the  donor's  feeHngs, 

To  those  who  have  the  artist's  eye,  the  picture, 
which  hangs  in  my  school-house  now,  does  not 
show  a  liandsome  lad,  Jamie  being  short  and 
dapper,  with  straw-coloured  hair  and  a  chin  that 
ran  away  into  his  neck.  That  is  how  I  once  re- 
garded him,  but  I  ha\'e  little  heart  for  criticism  of 
those  I  like,  and,  despite  his  madness  for  a  season, 
of  which,  alas,  I  shall  have  to  tell,  I  am  always 
Jamie's  friend.  Even  to  hear  an)'  one  disparaging 
the  a[)i)earance  of  Jess's  son  is  to  me  a  pain. 

All  Jess's  acquaintances  knew  that  in  the  be- 
ginning of  every  month  a  registered  letter  reached 
her  from  London.  To  her  it  was  not  a  matter 
to  keep  secret.  She  was  jiroud  that  the  help  she 
and  llcndr}'  needed  in  the  gloaming  of  their  li\es 
should  come  from  her  beloved  son,  and  the  neigh- 
bours esteemed  Jamie  because  he  was  good  to 
his  mother.  Jess  had  more  humour  than  any 
other  woman  I  have  known,  while  Leeby  was 
but  sparingly  endowed ;  yet,  as  the  month  neared 
its  close,  it  was  the  daughter  who  put  on  the 
humorist,  Jess  thinking  money  too  serit)us  a  thing 
to  jest   about.     Then  if  Leeby   had  a  moment  for 

171 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

gossip,  as  when  ironing  a  dickey  for  Hendry,  and 
the  iron  was  a  trifle  too  hot,  she  would  look  archly 
at  me  before  addressing  her  mother  in  these  words: 

"Will  he  send,  think  ye?" 

Jess,  who  had  a  conviction  that  he  would  send, 
afitccted  surprise  at  the  question. 

"Will  Jamie  send  this  month,  do  ye  mean? 
Na,  oh,  losh  no  !  it 's  no  to  be  expeckit.  Na,  he 
couldna  cio  't  this  time." 

"  That 's  what  ye  aye  say,  but  he  aye  sends.  Yes, 
an'  vara  weel  ye  ken  'at  he  will  send." 

"  Na,  na,  Leeby ;  dinna  let  me  ever  think  o' 
sic  a  thing  this  month." 

"  As  if  ye  wasna  thinkin'  o't  day  an'  nicht !  " 

"  He  's  terrible  mindfu',  Leeby,  but  he  doesna 
hae  't.     Na,  no  this  month  ;    mebbe  next  month." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  mother,  'at  ye  '11  no 
be  up  oot  o'  yer  bed  on  Monunday  an  hour 
afore  yer  usual  time,  lookin'  for  the  post?" 

"  Na,  no  this  time.  I  may  be  up,  an'  tak  a 
look  for  'im,  but  no  expeckin'  a  registerdy ;  na, 
na,  that  wouldna  be  reasonable." 

"  Reasonable  here,  reasonable  there,  up  you  '11 
be,  keekin'  through  the  blind  to  see  if  the  post 's 
comin' ;  ay,  an'  what 's  mair,  the  post  will  come,  and 

172 


THE    SON    FROM   LONDON. 

a  rcgisterd}'  in  his  hand  wi'  fifteen  shilhngs  in  "t  at 
the  least." 

"  Dinna  sa\-  fifteen,  Leeb\' ;  I  would  never  think 
o'  sic  a  sum.     Alebbe  five  —  " 

*'  Five  !  I  wonder  to  hear  }'e.  Vera  weel  \'ou 
ken  'at  since  he  had  twentv-twa  shillings  in  the 
week  he  's  ne\-er  sent  less  than  half  a  sovereign." 

"  No,  but  we  canna  expeck  —  " 

"  Expeck  !      No,  but  it's  no  expeck,  it 's  get." 

On  the  Monday  morning  when  I  came  down- 
stairs, Jess  was  in  her  chair  b\-  the  window,  beam- 
ing, a  piece  of  paper  in  her  hand.  I  did  not 
require  to  be  told  about  it,  but  I  was  told. 
Jess  had  been  up  before  Leeby  could  get  the 
fire  lit,  with  great  difficult}'  reaching  the  window 
in  her  bare  feet,  and  man\'  a  time  had  she  said 
that  the  post  must  be  b}'. 

"  Hax'ers,"  said  Leeb}',  "  he  winna  be  for  an  hour 
yet.     Come  awa  back  to  }'our  bed." 

"  Na,  he  maun  be  by,"  Jess  would  say  in  a  few 
minutes;    "  on,  we  couldna  expeck  this  month." 

So  it  went  on  until  Jess's  hand  shook  the  blind. 

"lie's  comin',  Leeby,  he's  comin'.  He'll  no 
hae  naething,  na,  I  couldna  e.xpeck —  He's 
by  !  " 

173 


A    WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

"  T  dinna  believe  it,"  cried  Leeby,  running  to 
the  window;    "he's  juist  at  his  tricks  again." 

This  was  in  reference  to  a  way  our  saturnine 
post  had  of  pretending  that  he  brouglit  no  letters 
and  passing  the  door.  Then  he  turned  back. 
"  Mistress  McOumpha,"   he  cried,  and  whistled. 

"  Run,  Leeby,  run,"  said  Jess,  excitedly. 

Leeby  hastened  to  the  door,  and  came  back 
with  a  registered  letter. 

"  Registerdy,"  she  cried  in  triumph,  and  Jess, 
with  fond  hands,  opened  the  letter.  By  the  time 
I  came  down  the  money  was  hid  away  in  a  box 
beneath  the  bed,  where  not  even  Leeby  could  fmd 
it,  and  Jess  was  on  her  chair  hugging  the  letter. 
She  preserved  all   her  registered  envelopes. 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  in  Thrums 
when  Jamie  was  expected  for  his  ten  days'  holiday, 
and  for  a  week  we  discussed  little  else.  Though 
he  had  written  saying  when  he  would  sail  for 
Dundee,  there  was  quite  a  possibilit)^  of  his  ap- 
pearing on  the  brae  at  any  moment,  for  he  liked 
to  take  Jess  and  Leeby  by  surprise.  Hendry 
there  was  no  surprising,  unless  he  was  in  the 
mood  for  it.  and  the  coolness  of  him  was  one  of 
Jess's  grievances.      Just    two    years    earlier   Jamie 

174 


THI':    I'OST. 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON. 

came  north  a  week  before  his  time,  and  his  father 
saw  him  from  the  window.  Instead  of  cr\-imj  out 
in  amazement  or  hacking-  his  face,  for  he  was 
shaving  at  the  time,  Hendry  cahnl)-  wiped  his 
razor  on  the  window-sill,   and   said  — 

"Ay,  there's  Jamie." 

Jamie  was  a  little  disappointed  at  being  seen 
in  this  wa\',  for  he  had  been  looking  forward  for 
four  and  fort\-  hours  to  repeating  the  sensation 
of  the  year  before.  On  that  occasion  he  had  got 
to  the  door  unnoticed,  where  he  stopped  to  listen. 
I  dare  say  he  checked  his  breath,  the  better  to 
catch  his  mother's  voice,  for  Jess  being  an  invalid, 
Jamie  thoufjht  of  her  first.  He  had  Leebv  sworn 
to  write  the  truth  about  her,  but  man}'  an 
anxious  hour  he  had  on  hearing  that  she  was 
"complaining  fell  (considcrabl)')  about  lier  back 
the  da\',"  Leeb\',  as  he  knew,  being  frightened  to 
alarm  liim.  Jamie,  too,  had  given  his  promise  to 
tell  cxactl}-  how  he  was  keeping,  but  often  he 
wrote  that  he  was  "  fine "  when  Jess  had  lier 
doubts.  When  Hendry  wrote  he  spread  himself 
over  the  table,  and  said  that  Jess  was  "juist  about 
it,"  or  "  aff  and  on,"  which  does  not  tell  much. 
So  Jamie  hearkened  painfull)'  at  tlie  door,  and  by 

12  177 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

and  by  heard  his  mother   say  to  Lccby    that  she 
was   sure   the    teapot   was   runnini,^    out.     Perhaps 
that  voice    was  as  sweet   to    him    as  the  music   of 
a  maiden   to   her    lover,    but    Jamie   did   not  rush 
into  his  mother's  arms.     Jess   has  told   me  with  a 
beaming  face   how   craftily  he   behaved.     The  old 
man,  of  lungs    that  shook  Thrums  by  night,  who 
went   from   door   to    door   selling  firewood,   had   a 
way  of  shoving  doors  rudel\-  open  and  cr\ing  — 
"  Ony  ro/xtty  roots?"  and  him  Jamie  imitated. 
"Juist   think,"   Jess    said,    as    she     recalled    the 
incident,  "  what  a  startle  we   got !     As  we    think, 
Pete    kicks    open    the    door    and    cries  oot,  '  Ony 
rozetty  roots?'   and    Leeby   says  'No,'  and  gangs 
to  shut  the   door.      Next    minute    she    screeches, 
'  What,  what,  what !  '  and  in  walks  Jamie  !  " 

Jess  was  never  able  to  decide  whether  it  was 
more  delightful  to  be  taken  aback  in  this  way  or 
to  prepare  for  Jamie.  Sudden  excitement  was 
bad  for  her  according  to  Hendr>',  who  got  his 
medical  knowledge  second-hand  from  persons 
under  treatment;  but  with  Jamie's  appearance 
on  the  threshold  Jess's  health  bc^an  to  imi)rove. 
This  time  he  kept  to  the  appointed  day,  and  the 
house    was    turned    ui)side    down    in    his    honour. 

17S 


THE   SON    FROM    LONDON. 

Such,  a  polish  did  Lccb>'  put  on  the  flagons 
which  hung  on  the  kitchen  wall,  that,  passing 
between  them  and  the  window,  I  thought  once 
I  had  been  struck  b\-  lightning.  On  the  morning 
of  the  day  that  was  to  bring  him,  Leeby  was  up 
at  two  o'clock,  and  eight  hours  before  he  could 
possibly  arrive  Jess  had  a  night-shirt  warming 
for  him  at  the  fire.  I  was  no  longer  anybody, 
except  as  a  person  who  could  give  Jamie  advice. 
Jess  told  me  what  I  was  to  say.  The  only  thing 
he  and  his  mother  quarrelled  about  was  the  un- 
derclothing she  would  swaddle  him  in,  and  Jess 
asked  me  to  back  her  up  in  her  entreaties. 

"  There  's  no  a  doubt,"  she  said,  "  but  what  it's 
a  hantle  caulder  here  than  in  London,  an'  it 
would  be  a  terrible  business  if  he  was  to  tak  the 
cauld." 

Jamie  was  to  sail  from  London  to  Dundee, 
and  come  on  to  Thrums  from  Tilliedruni  in  the 
post-cart.  The  road  at  that  time,  however, 
avoided  the  brae,  and  at  a  certain  point  Jamie's 
custom  was  to  alight,  and  take  the  short  cut 
home,  along  a  farm  road  and  up  the  commonty. 
I  Lre,  too.  Hookey  Crewe,  the  ])ost,  (le])osite(l  his 
passenger's  box,  which  llendry   wheeled   home   in 

179 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

a  barrow.     Long  before    the   cart   had    lost    sight 
of  Tilliedriim,  Jess  was  at  her  window. 

"Tell  her  Hookey 's  often  late  on  Monundays," 
Lceby  whispered  to  me,  "  for  she  '11  gang  oot  o' 
her  mind   if  she  thinks  there's  onything  wrang." 


THE    KOAD    FKOAI    TILLIEDRUM. 


Soon  Jess  was  painfully  excited,  though  she  sat 
as  still   as  salt. 

"  It  maun  be  yer  time,"  she  said,  looking  at  both 
Leeby  and  me,  for  in  Thrums  we  went  out  and  met 
our  friends. 

i8o 


THE    SON    FROM   LONDON. 

"  Hoots,"  retorted  Lccby,  tr\-in^'  to  be  hard}'. 
"  Hookc\-  canna  be  oot  o'   Tilliedruin   \-et." 

"  lie  iiiaiiii  hae  starlit  laiiL;'  s\"iie." 

"  I  wonder  at  \'e,  mother,  puttiii'  yersel  in  sic  a 
state.     Ye 'II  be  ill  when  becomes." 

"  Na,  'am  no  in  nae  state,  Lecby,  but  there  '11 
no  be  nae  accident,  will  there?" 

"  It's  most  provokin'  'at  }'e  will  think  'at  every 
time  Jamie  steps  into  a  machine  there  '11  be  an 
accident.  'Am  sure  if  \'c  would  tak  mair  after 
my  father,  it  would  be  a  blessin '.  Look  hoo  cool 
he  is." 

"Whaur  is  he,  Leeby?" 

"  Oh,  I  dinna  ken.  The  hcnmost  time  I  saw 
him  he  was  layin'  doon  the  law  aboot  somethiuL;" 
to  T'nowhead." 

"  It 's  an  awfu'  \\y  that  he  has  o'  L;aen  oot 
withoot  a  word.  I  wouldna  wonder  'at  he's  no 
bein'  in  time  to  meet  Jamie,  an'  that  would  be  a 
prett}'  business." 

"  Od,  \'e  're  sure  he  '11  be  in  braw  time." 

"  Hut  he  hasna  taen  the  barrow  wi'  him,  an' 
hoo  is  Jamie's  luggage  to  be  brocht  u])  withoot  a 
barrow?  " 

"  Barrow!      He  took  tlie  barrow  to  the  saw-mill 

iSi 


A    WINDOW  IN    THRUMS. 

an  hour  s\-nc  to  pick  it  up  at  Rob  Angus's  on 
the  wy." 

Several  times  Jess  was  sure  she  saw  the  cart  in 
the  distance,  and  implored  us  to  be  off. 

"  I  '11  tak  no  settle  till  ye 're  awa,"  she  said,  her 
face  now  flushed  and  her  hands  working  nervously. 

"We've  time  to  gang  and  come  twa  or  three 
times  yet,"  remonstrated  Lecby ;  but  Jess  gave 
me  so  beseeching  a  look  that  I  put  on  my  hat. 
Then  Hendry  dandered  in  to  change  his  coat  de- 
liberately, and  when  the  three  of  us  set  off,  we 
left  Jess  with  her  eye  on  the  door  b\'  which  Jamie 
must  enter.  He  was  her  only  son  now,  and  she 
had  not  seen  him  for  a  \'ear. 

On  the  way  down  the  commonty,  Leeby  had 
the  honour  of  being  twice  addressed  as  Miss 
McOumpha,  but  her  father  was  Hendry  to  all, 
which  shows  that  we  make  our  social  position  for 
ourselves.  Hendry  looked  forward  to  Jamie's 
annual  appearance  only  a  little  less  hungril\'  than 
Jess,  but  his  pulse  still  beat  regularly.  Leeby 
would  have  considered  it  almost  wicked  to  talk 
of  anything  except  Jamie  now,  but  Hendr\'  cried 
out  comments  on  the  tatties,  yesterda}''s  roup,  the 
fall  in  jute,  to  everybody  he  encountered.     When 

182 


THE   SON    FROM    LONDON. 

he  And  a  croii}'  liad  their  sa\'  and  parted,  it  was 
thcii  custom  to  continue  the  conversation  in 
shouts  until  the\-  were  out  of  hearing. 

Only  to   Jess   at   her  window  was  the  cart   late 
that    afternoon.       Jamie    jumped    frctm    it    in    the 


A    PATH    ON    THK    COMMONTY. 


loner  CTcat-coat  that  liad  been  new  to  Thrums 
the  )X'ar  before,  and   Hendry  said   calmly  — 

'' Ay,  Jamie." 

Leeby  and  Jamie  made  sii^ns  tliat  they  recog- 
nized each  other  as  brother  and  sister,  but  I  was 
the  only  one  with  whom  he  shocik  hands.  lie 
was  smart  in  his  moNements  and  quite  the  gentle- 
man,   but    the    Thrums    ways    took    lu^ld    of    him 

183 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

again  at  once.  He  even  inquired  for  his  mother 
in  a  tone  that  was  meant  to  deceive  me  into  think- 
ing he  did  not  care  how  she  was. 

Hcndr}'  would    have   had  a  talk  out  of  him  on 
the   spot,  but  was  reminded   of  the  luggage.     We 


■^-v 


A    HEAVY   FARM   ROAD. 


took  the  heavy  farm  road,  and  soon  we  were  at 
the  saw-mill.  I  am  naturally  leisurely,  but  we 
climbed  the  commonty  at  a  stride.  Jamie  pre- 
tended to  be  calm,  but  in  a  dark  place  I  saw  him 
take  Leeby's  hand,  and   after  that  he  said    not  a 

184 


THE   SON   FROM   LONDON. 

word.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  elbow  of  the 
brae,  where  he  would  come  into  slight  of  his 
mother's  window.  I\Ian\-,  man\'  a  time,  I  know, 
that  lad  had  pra\'ed  to  God  for  still  another  sight 


THK    ICLIIOW    OF    THE    BRAE. 


of  the  window  with  his  mother  at  it.  So  we 
came  to  the  corner  where  the  stile  is  that  Sam'l 
Dickie  jumped  in  the  race  for  T'nowhead's  Bell, 
and  before  Jamie  was  the  house  of  his  childhood 
and   his   mother's    window,   antl   the    fond,   anxious 

»85 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

face  of  his  mother  herself  My  eyes  are  dull,  and 
I  did  not  see  her,  but  suddenly  Jamie  cried  out, 
"  My  mother !  "  and  Leeby  and  I  were  left  behind. 
When  I  reached  the  kitchen  Jess  was  crying,  and 
her  son's  arms  were  round  her  neck.  I  went  away 
to  my  attic. 

There  was  only  one  other  memorable  event  of 
that  day.  Jamie  had  finished  his  tea,  and  we  all 
sat  round  him,  listening  to  his  adventures  and 
opinions.  He  told  us  how  the  countr\-  should  be 
governed,  too,  and  perhaps  put  on  airs  a  little. 
Hendry  asked  the  questions,  and  Jamie  answered 
them  as  pat  as  if  he  and  his  father  were  going 
through  the  Shorter  Catechism.  When  Jamie  told 
anything  marvellous,  as  how  many  towels  were 
used  at  the  shop  in  a  da}',  or  that  twopence  was 
the  charge  for  a  single  shave,  his  father  screwed 
his  mouth  together  as  if  preparing  to  whistle,  and 
then  instead  made  a  curious  clucking  noise  with 
his  tongue,  which  was  reserved  for  the  expression 
of  absolute  amazement.  As  for  Jess,  who  was 
given  to  making  much  of  me,  she  ignored  my  re- 
marks, and  laughed  hilariously  at  jokes  of  Jamie's 
which  had  been  received  in  silence  from  me  a  few 
minutes  before. 

1 86 


THE   SON    FROM   LONDON. 

SlowU'  it  came  to  nic  that  Leeb\'  had  soinethincj 
on  her  niiiul,  and  that  Jamie  was  talking;-  to  her 
with  his  e\(.'S.  I  learned  afterwards  that  they 
were  plotting"  how  to  get  me  out  of  the  kitchen, 
but  were  too  impatient  to  wait.  Thus  it  was  that 
the  great  event  happened  in  m\'  presence.  Jamie 
rose  and  stood  near  Jess — I  dare  say  he  had 
planned  the  scene  frequently.  Then  he  j^rotluced 
frtmi  his  jjocket  a  purse,  and  coolK'  opened  it. 
Silence  fell  upon  us  as  we  saw  that  purse.  From 
it  he  took  a  neatly-folded  piece  of  paper,  crumpled 
it  into  a  ball,  and  flung  it  into  Jess's  lap. 

I  cannot  say  whether  Jess  knew  A\'hat  it  was. 
Her  hand  shook,  and  for  a  moment  she  let  the  ball 
of  paper  lie  there. 

"  Open  't  up,"  cried  Lceby,  who  was  in  the  secret. 

"  What  is't?"  asked  Hendrx',  drawing  nearer. 

"It's  Juist  a  bit  paper  Jamie  flung  at  me,"  said 
Jess,  and  then  she  unfolded  it. 

"  It 's  a  five-pound  note  !  "  cried  Hendry. 

*' Na,  na;  oh,  keep  us,  no,"  said  Jess;  but  she 
knew  it  was. 

For  a  time  she  could  not  speak. 

"I  ranna  tak  it,  Jamie,"  she  faltered  at  last. 

But  Jamie  waved  his  hand,  meaning  that  it  was 

187 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

nothing,  and  then,  lest  he  should  burst,  hurried 
out  into  the  garden,  where  he  walked  up  and 
down  whistling.  May  God  bless  the  lad,  thought 
I.  I  do  not  know  the  history  of  that  five-pound 
note,  but  well  aware  I  am  that  it  grew  slowl)-  out 
of  pence  and  silver,  and  that  Jamie  denied  his 
passions  many  things  for  this  great  hour.  His 
sacrifices  watered  his  young  heart  antl  kept  it  fresh 
and  tender.  Let  us  no  longer  cheat  our  con- 
sciences by  talking  of  filth}'  lucre.  Money  may 
always  be  a  beautiful  thing.  It  is  we  who  make 
it  grimy. 


i88 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

A   HOME   FOR   GENIUSES. 

From  hints  he  liad  let  drop  at  odd  times  I  knew 
that  Tammas  Haggart  had  a  scheme  for  geniuses, 
but  not  until  the  evening  after  Jamie's  arrival  did 
I  get  it  out  of  him.  Hendry  was  with  Jamie  at 
the  fishing,  and  it  came  about  that  Tammas  and 
I   had  the  pig-sty  to  ourselves. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  when  we  had  got  a  grip  of 
the  subject,  "  I  dount  pretend  as  my  ideas  is  to  be 
followed  withoot  deeviation,  but  ondootedl}'  some- 
thing should  be  done  for  geniuses,  them  bein'  aboot 
the  onh'  class  as  we  do  naething  for.  ^'et  they're 
fowk  to  be  prood  o',  an'  we  shduldna  let  them 
o\erdo  the  thing,  nor  run  into  del)t ;  na,  na. 
There  was  Robbie  Burns,  noo,  as  real  a  genius 
as  ever  —  " 

At  the  pig-sty,  where  we  liked  to  have  more 
than  one  topic,  we  had  frequently  to  tempt  Tammas 
away  from  Hums. 

189 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"Your  scheme,"  1  interposed,  "is  for  living 
geniuses,  of  course?" 

"  A\-,"  he  said  thouL,ditfully,  "them  'at's  gone 
canna  be  brocht  back.  Wecl,  my  idea  is  'at  a 
Home  should  be  built  for  geniuses  at  the  public 


IN    THE   YARD    AT    T'NOWHEAD. 


expense,  whaur  they  could  all  live  thegither,  an' 
be  decently  looked  after.  Na,  no  in  London; 
that  's  no  my  plan,  but  I  would  hae  't  within  an 
hour's  distance  o'  London,  say  five  mile  frae  the 
market-place,  an'  standin'   in   a  bit  garden,  whaur 

190 


A    HOME   FOR   GENIUSES. 

the  geniuses  could  walk  aboot  arni-in-arni,  coni- 
posin'  their  minds." 

"  You  would  ha\e  the  grounds  walled  in,  1  sup- 
pose, so  that  the  public  could  not  intrude?" 

"Weel,  there's  a  dithcult)-  there,  because,  ye '11 
observe,  as  the  public  \\\>ukl  support  the  insti- 
tootion,  the}'  would  hae  a  kind  o'  richt  to  look  in. 
How-some-ever,  1  daur  sa\'  we  could  arrange  to 
fling  the  grounds  open  to  the  public  once  a  week 
on  condition  'at  they  didna  speak  to  the  geniuses. 
I  'ni  thinkin'  'at  if  there  was  a  small  chairge  for 
admissit)n  the  llonie  could  be  made  self-supportin', 
Losh  !  to  think  'at  if  there  had  been  sic  an  insti- 
tootion  in  his  time  a  man  micht  hae  sat  on  the  bit 
d\ke  and  watched  Robbie  Burns  danderin'  roond 
the  —  " 

"You  would  dix'idc  the  Home  into  suites  of 
rooms,  so  that  e\er)'  inmate  woukl  ha\e  his  own 
apartments?  " 

"Not  by  no  means;  na,  na.  The  mair  T  read 
aboot  geniuses  the  mair  clearl}'  1  see  as  their  wy 
o'  li\'ing  alaiie  ower  muckle  is  ane  o'  the  things  as 
breaks  doon  their  health,  and  makes  them  mecse- 
rable.  1'  tlu:  llnnie  the)'  would  hae  a  bedroom 
apiece,  but  the  jjailour  an'  the  other  sittin'-rooms 

191 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

would  be  for  all,  so  as  they  could  enjoy  ane 
another's  company.  The  management?  Oh,  that's 
aisy.  The  superintendent  would  be  a  medical  man 
appointed  by  Parliament,  and  he  would  hae  men- 
servants  to  do  his  biddin'." 

"  Not  all  men-servants,  surely?  " 

"  Every  one  o'  them.  Man,  geniuses  is  no  to  be 
trusted  wi'  womenfolk.     No'  even   Robbie  Bu  — " 

"  So  he  did ;  but  would  the  inmates  have  to 
put  themselves  entirely  in  the  superintendent's 
hands? " 

"  Nae  doubt;  an'  they  would  see  it  was  the 
wisest  thing  they  could  do.  He  would  be  careful 
o'  their  health,  an'  send  them  early  to  bed  as 
weel  as  hae  them  up  at  eight  sharp.  Geniuses' 
healths  is  always  breakin'  doon  because  of  late 
hours,  as  in  the  case  o'  the  lad  wha  used  often 
to  begin  his  immortal  writins  at  twal'  o'clock  at 
nicht.  a  thing  'at  would  ruin  ony  constitootion. 
But  the  superintendent  would  see  as  they  had  a 
tasty  supper  at  nine  o'clock  —  something  as  agreed 
wi'  them.  Then  for  half  an  hour  they  would  quiet 
their  brains  readin'  oot  aloud,  time  about,  frae  sic 
a  book  as  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  an'  the  gas 
would  be  turned  afif  at  ten  precisely." 

192 


A   HOME   FOR   GENIUSES. 

"  When  would  you  have  them  up  in  the 
morning?  " 

"  At  sax  in  summer  an'  seven  in  winter.  The 
superintendent  would  see  as  they  were  all  prop- 
erl}-  bathed  e\er)-  mornin',  cleanliness  bein'  most 
important  for  the  preservation  o'  health." 

"  This  sounds  well ;  but  suppose  a  genius  broke 
the  rules — la}^  in  bed,  for  instance,  reading  by 
the  light  of  a  candle  after  hours,  or  refused  to 
take  his  bath   in  the  morning?" 

"  The  superintendent  would  hae  to  punish  him. 
The  genius  would  be  sent  back  to  his  bed,  maybe. 
An'  if  he  la}-  lang  i'  the  mornin'  he  would  hae  to 
gang  withoot  his  breakfast." 

"  That  would  be  all  \-er}'  well  where  the  inmate 
only  broke  the  regulations  once  in  a  way;  but 
suppose  he  were  to  refuse  to  take  his  bath  day 
after  da\'  (and,  }'ou  know,  geniuses  arc  said  to 
be  eccentric  in  that  particular),  what  would  be 
done?  You  could  not  starve  him;  geniuses  are 
too  scarce." 

"  Na,  na ;    in  a  case  like  that  he  would  hae  to 

be  reported  to  the  public.     The  thing  would   hae 

to  come  afore  the   Hoose  o'   Commons.     Ay,  the 

superintendent  would  get  a  member  o'  the  Oppo- 

'3  193 


A   WINDOW    IN     THRUMS. 

section  to  ask  a  queistion  such  as  '  Can  the  hon- 
ourable gentleman,  the'  Sccretar}'  of  State  for 
Home  Affairs,  inform  the  1  loose  whether  it  is  a 
fac  that  Mr.  Sic-a-one,  the  well-known  genius,  at 
present  resident  in  the  Home  for  Geniuses,  has, 
contrairy  to  regulations,  perseestentl}'  and  obsti- 
nately refused  to  change  his  linen;  antl,  if  so, 
whether  the  Government  proposes  to  take  ony 
steps  in  the  matter?'  The  newspapers  would  re- 
port the  discussion  next  mornin',  an'  so  it  would 
be  made  public  withoot  onnecessary  ootlay." 

"  In  a  general  way,  however,  }'ou  would  give 
the  geniuses  perfect  freedom?  They  could  work 
when  they  liked,  and  come  and  go  when  they 
liked?" 

"  Not  so.  The  superintendent  would  fix  the 
hours  o'  wark,  an'  they  would  all  write,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  thegither  in  one  large  room.  Man, 
man,  it  would  mak  a  grand  draw  for  a  painter- 
chield,  that  room,  wi'  all  the  geniuses  working 
awa  thegither." 

"  But  when  the  labours  of  the  day  were  over 
the  genius  would  be  at  libert)'  to  make  calls  by 
himself,  or  to  run  up,  say,  to  London,  for  an  hour 
or  two?" 

194 


A    HOME    FOR   OENIUSES. 

"Hoots  no,  that  would  spoil  cvcrxthiiisj;.  It's 
the  drink,  \'c  sec,  as  does  for  a  terrible  k>t  o' 
j^eniuses.     I'Lven   Rob  —  " 

"  Alas !  yes.  But  would  }'ou  have  them  all 
teetotalers?  " 

"What  do  ye  tak  nie  (ov?  Na,  na  ;  the  super- 
intendent W(nild  allow  theni  one  crlass  o'  toddv 
ever}'  nicht,  an'  mix  it  hinisel;  but  he  would 
never  let  the  keys  o'  the  press,  whaur  he  kept 
the  drink,  oot  o'  his  hands.  They  woukl  never 
be  allowed  oot  o'  the  gairden  either,  withoot  a 
man  to  look  after  them ;  an'  I  wouldna  burthen 
them  \\i'  ower  muckle  pocket-mone\'.  Saxpencc 
in  the  week  would  be  suffeecient." 

"  How  about  their  clothes?  " 

"  They  would  get  twa  suits  a  }'ear,  wi'  the 
letter  G  sewed  on  the  shoulders,  so  as  if  they 
were  lost  the\'  could  be  recognized  and  l)rocht 
back." 

"  Certainl}-  it  is  a  scheme  def.erving  considera- 
tion, and  T  ha\'e  no  doulit  our  geniuses  would 
jump  at  it;  but  \'ou  must  renu'mber  that  some 
of  them   would   ha\'e  wives." 

"  Ay,  an'  some  o'  them  would  hae  husbands. 
I  'vc  been  thinkin'  that  oot,  an'  I  daursay  the  best 

195 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

plan  would  be  to  partition  aff  a  pairt  o'  the  Home 
for  female  geniuses." 

"Would  Parliament  elect  the  members?  " 
"  I  wouldna  trust  them.  The  election  would 
hae  to  be  by  competitive  examination.  Na,  I 
canna  say  wha  would  draw  up  the  queistions. 
The  scheme  's  juist  growin'  i'  my  mind,  but  the 
mair  I   think  o't  the  better  I   like  it." 


196 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

LEEBY   AND   JAMIE. 

By  the  bank  of  the  Ouharity  on  a  summer  day  I 
have  seen  a  barefooted  girl  gaze  at  the  running 
water  until  tears  filled  her  eyes.  That  was  the 
birth  of  romance.  Whether  this  love  be  but  a 
beautiful  dream  I  cannot  say,  but  this  we  see, 
that  it  comes  to  all,  and  colours  the  whole  future 
life  with  gold.  Leeby  must  have  dreamt  it,  but 
I  did  not  know  her  then.  I  have  heard  of  a  man 
who  would  have  taken  her  far  away  into  a  coun- 
try where  the  corn  is  yellow  when  it  is  still  green 
with  us,  but  she  would  not  leave  her  mother,  nor 
was  it  him  she  saw  in  her  dream.  From  her 
earliest  days,  when  she  was  still  a  child  stagger- 
ing round  the  garden  with  Jamie  in  her  arms, 
her  duty  lay  before  her,  straight  as  the  bur)'ing- 
ground  road.  Jess  had  need  of  her  in  the  little 
home  at  the  top  of  the   brae,  where  God,  looking 

197 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

down  upon  her  as  she  scrubbed  and  gossiped 
and  sat  up  all  night  with  her  ailing  mother,  and 
never  missed  the  prayer-meeting,  and  adored  the 
minister,  did  not  perhaps  think  her  the  least  of 
His  handmaids.  Iler  years  were  less  than  thirty 
when  He  took  her  away,  but  she  had  few  days 
that  were  altogether  dark.  Those  who  bring  sun- 
shine to  the  lives  of  others  cannot  keep  it  from 
themselves. 

The  love  Leeby  bore  for  Jamie  was  such  that  in 
their  younger  days  it  shamed  him.  Other  laddies 
knew  of  it,  and  flung  it  at  him  until  he  dared 
Leeby  to  let  on  in  public  that  he  and  she  were 
related. 

"  Hoo  is  your  lass?"  they  used  to  cry  to  him, 
inventing  a  new  game. 

"  I  saw  Leeby  lookin'  for  ye,"  they  would 
say;   "she's    wearyin'    for    ye    to    gang    an'    play 

•  >       1  u 

wi     her. 

Then  if  they  were  not  much  bigger  boys  than 
himself,  Jamie  got  them  against  the  dyke  and 
hit  them  hard  until  they  publicly  owned  to  know- 
ing that  she  was  his  sister,  and  that  he  was  not 
fond  of  her. 

"  It  distressed  him  mair  than  ye  could  believe, 

198 


c 


G 

X 


LEEBY   AND   JAMIE. 

though,"  Jess  has  told  mo ;  "  an,  w  hen  he  came 
hame  he  would  street  an'  say  'at  Leeb}'  disgraced 
him." 

Leeby,  of  course,  suffered  for  her  too  obvious 
affection. 

"  I  wonder  'at  ye  didna  try  to  control  yersel," 
Jamie  would  say  to  her,  as  he  grew  bigger. 

"  'Am  sure,"  said  Leeby,  "  I  never  gie  ye  a  look 
if  there  's  onybody  there." 

"  A  look  !  You  're  aye  lookin'  at  me  sae  fond- 
like  'at  I  dinna  ken  \\hat  wy  to  turn." 

"  Weel,  I  canna  help  it,"  said  Leeby,  probably 
beginning  to  whimper. 

If  Jamie  was  in  a  very  bad  temper  he  left  her, 
after  this,  to  her  own  reflections ;  but  he  was 
naturally  soft-hearted. 

"  'Am  no  tellin'  ye  no  to  care  for  me,"  he  told 
her,  "  but  juist  to  keep  it  mair  to  yersel.  Naebody 
would  ken  frae  me  'at  'am  fond  o'  ye." 

"  Mebbe  yer  no?  "  said  Leeby. 

"  Ay,  am  I,  but  I  can  keej)  it  secret.  When 
we  're  in   the  hoose  am  juist  richt  fond  o'  ye." 

"  Do  you  love  me,  Jamie?  " 

Jamie  waggled  his  head  in  irritation. 

"  Love,"    he    said,   "  is    an    awful    like    word   to 

201 


A   WINDOW  IN   THRUMS. 

use  Avhen  fowk  's  weel.  Ye  shouldna  spcir  bic 
annoyin'   qucistions." 

"  But  if  ye  juist  say  ye  love  me  I  '11  never  let 
on  again  afore  fowk  'at  yer  onything  to  me 
ava. 

"  Ay,  ye  often  say  that." 

"Do  ye  no  believe  my  word?" 

"  I  believe  fine  ye  mean  what  ye  say,  but  ye 
forget  yersel  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Juist  try  me  this  time." 

"Weel,  then,  I  do." 

"  Do  what?  "  asked  the  greedy  Leeby. 

"What  ye  said." 

"  I  said  love." 

"Weel,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  do 't." 

"  What  do  ye  do?     Say  the  word." 

"  Na,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  winna  say  the  word.  It 's 
no  a  word  to  say,  but  I  do  't." 

That  was  all  she  could  get  out  of  liim,  unless 
he  was  stricken  with  remorse,  when  he  even  went 
the  length  of  saying  the  word. 

"  Leeby  kent  perfectly  weel,"  Jess  has  said,  "  'at 
it  was  a  trial  to  Jamie  to  tak  her  ony  gait,  an'  I 
often  used  to  say  to  her  'at  I  wondered  at  her 
want  o'  pride  in  priggin'  wi'  him.     Ay,  but  if  she 

202 


LEEDY   AND   JAMIE. 

could  juist  get  a  promise  wrung  oot  o'  him,  she 
didna  care  hoo  muckle  she  had  to  i^rig.  S\'iie 
they  quarrelled,  an'  ane  or  baith  o'  them  grat 
afore  they  made  it  up.  I  mind  when  Jamie  went 
to  the  fishin'  Leeby  was  aye  terrible  keen  to  get 
wi'  him,  but  ye  see  he  wouldna  be  seen  gaen 
through  the  toon  wi'  her.  '  If  ye  let  me  gang,' 
she  said  to  him,  '  I  '11  no  seek  to  go  through  the 
toon  wi'  ye.  Na,  I  '11  gang  roond  by  the  Roods 
an'  you  can  tak  the  buryin'-ground  road,  so  as 
we  can  meet  on  the  hill.'  Yes,  Leeby  was  willin' 
to  agree  wi'  a'  that,  juist  to  get  gaen  wi'  him. 
I  've  seen  lassies  makkin  themselves  sma'  for  lads 
often  enough,  but  I  never  saw  ane  'at  prigged  so 
muckle  wi'  her  ain  brother.  Na,  it 's  other  lassies' 
brothers  they  like  as  a  rule." 

"  But  though  Jamie  was  terrible  reserved  aboot 
it,"  said  Leeby,  "  he  was  as  fond  o'  me  as  ever  I 
was  o'  him.  Ye  mind  the  time  I  had  the  measles, 
mother?" 

"'Am  no  likely  to  forget  it,  Leeby,"  saitl  Jess, 
"  an'  you  blind  wi'  them  for  three  days.  Ay,  ay, 
Jamie  was  richt  taen  up  aboot  )'e.  1  mind  he  broke 
oprn  his  pirl)-  (money-box),  an'  bocht  a  ha'])enny 
worth  o'  something  to  ye  every  day." 

203 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

"  An'  ye  hinna  forgotten  the  stick?'" 

"  'Deed  no,  I  hinna.  Ye  see,"  Jess  explained  to 
me,  "  Lecby  was  lyin'  ben  the  hoose,  an'  Jamie 
wasna  allowed  to  gang  near  her  for  fear  o'  infection. 
Weel,  he  got  a  lang  stick  —  it  was  a  pea-stick  —  an' 
put  it  'aneath  the  door  an'  waggled  it.  Ay,  he  did 
that  a  CLirran  times  every  day,  juist  to  let  her  see 
he  was  thinkin'  o'  her." 

"  Mair  than  that,"  said  Leeby,  "  he  cried  cot  'at 
he  loved  me." 

"Ay,  but  juist  aince,"  Jess  said  ;  "  I  dinna  mind 
o't  but  aince.  It  was  the  time  the  doctor  came 
late,  an'  Jamie,  being  waukened  by  him,  thocht  ye 
was  deein'.  I  mind  as  if  it  was  yesterday  hoo  he 
cam  runnin'  to  the  door  an'  cried  oot,  '  I  do  love 
ye,  Leeby ;  I  love  ye  richt.'  The  doctor  got  a 
start  when  he  heard  the  voice,  but  he  laughed  loud 
when  he  unerstood." 

"  He  had  nae  business,  though,"  said  Leeby,  "  to 
tell  onybody." 

"  He  was  a  rale  clever  man,  the  doctor,"  Jess 
explained  to  me ;  "  ay,  he  kent  me  as  weel  as 
though  he  'd  gaen  through  me  wi'  a  lichted  candle. 
It  got  oot  through  him,  an'  the  young  billies  took 
to  sayin'  to  Jamie,  '  Ye  do  love  her,  Jamie ;   ay,  ye 

204 


LEEBY    AND   JAMIE. 

love  her  richt,'  The  onl\-  rctjlar  fecht  I  ever  kent 
Jamie  hae  was  wi'  a  kul  'at  cried  that  to  liini.  It 
was  Bowlegs  Chirst\''s  laddie.  A}-,  but  when  she 
got  better  Jamie  bhimed  Leeby." 

"  He  no  onl}-  blamed  me,"  said  Leeby,  "but  he 
wanted  me  to  pay  him  back  a'  the  bawbees  he  had 
spent  on  me." 

"  Ay,  an'  I  sepad  he  got  them  too,"  said  Jess. 

In  time  Jamie  became  a  barber  in  Tilliedrum, 
trudging  many  heavy  miles  there  and  back  twice 
a  day  that  he  might  sleep  at  home,  trudging 
bravely  I  was  to  say,  but  it  was  what  he  v\as  born 
to,  and  there  was  hardly  an  alternative.  This  was 
the  time  I  saw  most  of  him,  and  he  and  Leeby 
were  often  in  m\-  thoughts.  There  is  as  terrible 
a  bubble  in  the  little  kettle  as  on  the  cauldron 
of  the  world,  and  some  of  the  scenes  between 
Jamie  and  Leeb\'  were  great  tragedies,  comedies, 
what  you  will,  until  the  kettle  was  taken  off  the 
fire.  Hers  was  the  more  placid  temper;  indeed, 
only  in  one  way  could  Jamie  suddenly  rouse  her 
to  fury.  That  was  when  he  hinted  that  she  had  a 
large  number  of  frocks.  Leeby  knew  that  there 
could  never  be  more  than  a  Sabbath  frock  and  an 
everyday    gown     for    her,    both    of    her    mother's 

205 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

making',  but  Jamie's  insinuations  were  more  than 
she  could  bear.  Then  I  have  seen  her  seize  and 
shake  him.  J  know  from  Jess  that  Leeb)'  cried 
herself  hoarse  the  day  Joey  was  buried,  because 
her  little  black  frock  was  not  ready  for  wear. 

Until  he  went  to  Tillietlrum  Jamie  had  been  more 
a  stay-at-h(^nie  boy  than  most.  The  warmth  of 
Jess's  love  had  something  to  do  with  keeping  his 
heart  aglow,  but  more,  I  think,  he  owed  to  Lceby. 
TilUedrum  was  his  introduction  to  the  world,  and 
f  )r  a  little  it  took  his  head.  I  was  in  the  house  the 
Sabbath  day  that  he  refused  to  go  to  church. 

He  went  out  in  the  forenoon  to  meet  the  TilUe- 
drum lads,  who  were  to  take  him  off  for  a  holiday 
in  a  cart.  Hendry  was  more  wrathful  than  I  re- 
member ever  to  have  seen  him,  though  I  have 
heard  how  he  did  with  the  lodger  who  broke  the 
Lord's  Day.  This  lodger  was  a  tourist  who  thought, 
in  folly,  surely,  rather  than  in  hardness  of  heart,  to 
test  the  religious  convictions  of  an  Auld  Licht  by 
insisting  on  paying  his  bill  on  a  Sabbath  morning. 
He  offered  the  money  to  Jess,  with  the  warning 
that  if  she  did  not  take  it  now  she  might  never  see 
it.  Jess  was  so  kind  and  good  to  her  lodgers  that 
he  could  not  have  known  her  long  who  troubled 

206 


Tir.LIKDRUM. 


LEEBY    AND   JAMIE. 

her  with  this  i)oor  trick.  She  was  sorely  in  need 
at  the  time,  and  entreated  the  thoughtless  man  to 
have  some  pity  on  her. 

"  Now  or  never,"  he  said,  holding  out  the 
money. 

"  Put  it  on  the  dresser,"  said  Jess  at  last,  "  an' 
I  '11  get  it  the  morn." 

The  few  shillings  were  laid  on  the  dresser,  where 
the}'  remained  unfingered  until  IIcndr\-,  with  Leeb>' 
and  Jamie,  came  in  from  church. 

"What  siller's  that?"  asked  Hendry,  and  then 
Jess  confessed  what  she  had  done. 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  woman,"  said  Hendry,  sternly; 
and  lifting  the  money  he  climbed  up  to  the  attic 
with  it- 
He  pushed  open  the  door,  and  confronted  the 
lodger. 

"  Take  back  yer  siller,"  he  said,  laying  it  on  the 
table,  "  an'  leave  my  hoose.  Man,  you  're  a  pitiable 
crittur  to  tak  the  chance,  when  I  was  oot,  o'  pla>in' 
uj)on  the  poverty  o'  an  onweel  woman." 

It  was  with  such   unwonted    sex'erit)'  as  this  that 

Hendry  called  upon  Jamie  to  follow  him  to  church  ; 

but  the  boy  went  off,  and   did   not  return  till   dusk. 

defiant  and  miserable.     Jess  had  been  so  terrified 

14  209 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

that  she  forgave  him  everything  for  sight  of  his 
face,  and  Hendry  prayed  for  him  at  family  wor- 
ship with  too  much  unction.  But  Leeby  cried  as 
if  her  tender  heart  would  break.  For  a  long  time 
Jamie  refused  to  look  at  her,  but  at  last  he  broke 
down. 

"  If  ye  go  on  like  that,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  gang  awa 
oot  an'  droon  mysel,  or  be  a  sojer." 

This  was  no  uncommon  threat  of  his,  and  some- 
times, when  he  went  off,  banging  the  door  violently, 
she  ran  after  him  and  brought  him  back.  This 
time  she  only  wept  the  more,  and  so  both  went  to 
bed  in  misery.  It  was  after  midnight  that  Jamie 
rose  and  crept  to  Leeby's  bedside.  Leeby  was 
shaking  the  bed  in  her  agony.  Jess  heard  what 
they  said. 

"  Leeby,"  said  Jamie,  "  dinna  greet,  an'  I  '11  never 
do  't  again." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  she  kissed  him 
passionately. 

"  Oh,  Jamie,"  she  said,  "  hae  ye  prayed  to  God 
to  forgie  ye?  " 

Jamie  did  not  speak. 

"  If  ye  was  to  die  this  nicht,"  cried  Leeby,  "  an' 
you  no  made  it  up  wi'   God,  ye  wouldna  gang  to 

2IO 


LKEBV   AND    JAMIE. 

heaven.     Jamie,  I   canna  sleep   till  ye  've   made  it 

up  \\i'  God." 

But  Jamie  still  hung  back.  Lecby  slip[)ed  from 
her  bed,  and  went  down  on  her  knees. 

"  O  God,  O  dear  God,"  she  cried,  "  mak  Jamie 
to  pra}'  to  \'ou  !  " 


THE   SCHOOLHOUSE    I.N    THE   GLEN. 


Then  Jamie  went  down  on  his  knees  too,  and 
the)-  made  it  up  with  God  together. 

This  is  a  little  thing  for  me  to  remember  all 
these  years,  and  }'et  how  fresh  and  sweet  it  keeps 
Lecby  in  my  memory. 


2  I  I 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

Away  up  in  the  glen,  my  lonely  schoolhouse 
lying  deep,  as  one  might  say,  in  a  sea  of  snow,  I 
had  many  hours  in  the  years  long  by  for  thinking 
of  my  friends  in  Thrums  and  mapping  out  the 
future  of  Leeby  and  Jamie.  I  saw  Hendry  and 
Jess  taken  to  the  churchyard  and  Leeby  left  alone 
in  the  house.  I  saw  Jamie  fulfil  his  promise  to 
his  mother,  and  take  Leeby,  that  stainless  young 
woman,  far  away  to  London,  where  they  had  a 
home  together.  Ah,  but  these  were  only  the  idle 
dreams  of  a  dominie.  The  Lord  willed  it  other- 
wise. 


212 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

A   TALE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

So  lon[]j  as  Jamie  was  not  the  lad,  Jess  twinkled 
gleefully  o\'er  tales  of  sweetheart! ng.  There  was 
little  Kitty  Lamby  who  used  to  skip  in  of  an 
evening,  and,  squatting  on  a  stool  near  the  window, 
unwind  the  roll  of  her  enormities.  A  wheedling 
thing  she  was,  with  an  ambition  to  drive  men 
craz}',  but  ni}'  presence  killed  the  gossip  on  her 
tongue,  though  I  liked  to  look  at  her.  When  I 
entered,  the  wag-at-the-wa'  clock  had  again  pos- 
session of  the  kitchen.  I  never  heartl  more  than 
the  end  of  a  sentence : 

"  An'   did   he   really   say  he  would   fling  himsel 
into  the  dam,  Kitty  !  " 

Or  __  "  True  as  death,  Jess,  he  kissed  mc." 

Then  T  \\andered  away  from  the  kitchen,  where 

I  was  not  wanted,  and  marvelled  to  know  that  Jess 

of  the  tender  heart  laughed  most   nu'rril)'  when  he 

reall>-  did   sa\'  that  he  was  going  straight   to    the 

213 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS.      . 

dam.  As  no  body  was  found  in  the  dam  in  those 
days,  whoever  he  was  he  must  have  thought  better 
of  it. 

But  let  Kitty,  or  any  other  maid,  cast  a  ghnting 
eye  on  Jamie,  then  Jess  no  longer  smiled.  If  he 
returned  the  glance  she  sat  silent  in  her  chair  till 
Leeby  laughed  awa}'  her  fears. 

"Jamie's  no  the  kind,  mother,"  Leeby  would 
say.  "  Na,  he  's  quiet,  but  he  sees  through  them. 
They  dinna  draw  his  leg." 

"  Ye  never  can  tell,  Leeby.  The  laddies  'at's 
maist  ill  to  get  sometimes  gangs  up  in  a  flame  a' 
at  aince,  like  a  bit  o'  paper." 

"Ay,  weel,  at  ony  rate  Jamie  's  no  on  fire  yet." 

Though  clever  beyond  her  neighbours,  Jess  lost 
all  her  sharpness  if  they  spoke  of  a  lassie  for  Jamie. 

"  I  warrant,"  Tibbie  Birse  said  one  day  in  my 
hearing,  "  'at  there  's  some  leddy  in  London  he  's 
thinkin'  o'.  Ay,  he  's  been  a  guid  laddie  to  ye,  but 
i'  the  coorse  o'  nature  he  '11  be  settlin'  dime  soon." 

Jess  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  a  [picture  of 
woe. 

"  Yer  lettin'  what  Tibbie  Birse  said  lie  on  yer 
mind,"  Leeby  remarked,  when  Tibbie  was  gone. 
"What  can  it  maitcr  what  she  thinks?" 

214 


THE   DOMINIK. 


A  TALE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

"  I  canna  help  it,  Leeby,"  said  Jess.  "  Na,  an' 
I  canna  bear  to  think  o'  Jamie  bein'  maiiit.  It 
would  lay  me  low  to  loss  my  laddie.  No  yet,  no 
yet." 

"  But,  mother,"  said  Leeby,  quoting  from  the 
minister  at  weddings,  "  ye  wouldna  be  lossin'  a  son, 
but  juist  gainin'  a  dochter." 

"  Dinna  haver,  Leeby,"  answered  Jess,  "  I  want 
nana  o'  thae  dochters ;   na,  na." 

This  talk  took  place  while  we  were  still  awaiting 
Jamie's  coming.  He  had  only  been  with  us  one 
day  when  Jess  made  a  terrible  discovery.  She  was 
looking  so  mournful  when  I  saw  her,  that  I  asked 
Leeby  what  was  wrong. 

"She's  brocht  it  on  hcrsel,"  said  Leeby.  "Ye 
see  she  was  up  sunc  i'  the  mornin'  to  begin  to  the 
darnin'  o'  Jamie's  stockins  an'  to  warm  his  sark  at 
the  fire  afore  he  put  it  on.  He  woke  up,  an'  cried 
to  her  'at  he  wasna  accustomed  to  haen  his  things 
warmed  for  him.  A}',  he  cried  it  oot  fell  thrawn, 
so  she  took  it  into  her  head  'at  there  was  something 
in  his  pouch  he  didna  want  her  to  see.  She  was 
even  onaisy  last  nicht." 

I  asked  what  had  aroused  Jess's  suspicions  last 
night. 

21  7 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"Ou,  ye  would  notice  'at  she  sat  devourin'  him 
wi'  her  ecn,  she  was  so  hftcd  up  at  haen  'm  again. 
Weel,  slie  says  noo  'at  she  saw  'im  twa  or  three 
times  put  his  hand  in  his  pouch  as  if  he  was  findin' 
to  mak  sure  'at  something  was  safe.  So  when  he 
fell  asleep  again  this  mornin'  she  got  hand  o'  his 
jacket  to  see  if  there  was  onything  in  't.  I  advised 
her  no  to  do  't,  but  she  couldna  help  hersel.  She 
put  in  her  hand,  an'  pu'd  it  oot.  That's  what's 
makkin  her  look  sae  ill." 

"  But  what  was  it  she  found?  " 

"Did  I  no  tell  ye?  I'm  gaen  dottle,  I  think. 
It  was  a  glove,  a  woman's  glove,  in  a  bit  paper. 
Ay,  though  she  's  sittin'  still  she  's  near  frantic." 

I  said  I  supposed  Jess  had  put  the  glove  back  in 
Jamie's  pocket. 

"  Na,"  said  Leeby,  "  deed  no.  She  wanted  to 
fling  it  on  the  back  o'  the  fire,  but  I  wouldna  let 
her.     That 's  it  she  has  aneath  her  apron." 

Later  in  the  day  I  remarked  to  Leeby  that 
Jamie  was  very  dull. 

"  He's  missed  it,"  she  explained. 

"  Has  any  one  mentioned  it  to  him,"  I  asked, 
"or  has  he  inquired  about  it?  " 

"  Na,"  says  Leeby,  "  there  hasna  been  a  syllup 

218 


A   TALE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

aboot   it.     My  mother  's  llcid  to  mention  't,  an'  he 
doesna  like  to  speak  aboot  it  either." 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  has  lost  it?  " 

"  Nae  fear  o'  him,"  Leeby  said.  "  Na,  he  kens 
fine  wha  has  't." 

I  never  knew  how  Jamie  came  by  the  glove,  nor 
whether  it  had  originally  belonged  to  her  who  made 
liim  forget  the  window  at  the  top  of  the  brae. 
At  the  time  I  looked  on  as  at  play-acting,  rejoicing 
in  the  happ)'  ending.  Alas  !  in  the  real  life  how  are 
we  to  know  when  we  have  reached  an  end  ? 

But  this  glove,  I  say,  may  not  have  been  that 
woman's,  and  if  it  was,  she  had  not  then  bedevilled 
him.  He  was  too  sheepish  to  demand  it  back  from 
his  mother,  and  alread}'  lie  cared  f^r  it  too  much  to 
laugh  at  Jess's  theft  with  Leeb}\  So  it  was  that 
a  curious  game  at  chess  was  played  with  the  glove, 
the  pla}'ers  a  silent  pair. 

Jamie  cared  little  to  read  books,  but  on  the  day 
following  Jess's  discovery,  I  found  him  on  his  knees 
in  the  attic,  looking  through  mine.  A  little  box 
without  a  lid  held  them  all,  but  they  seemed  a 
great  librar)'  to  him. 

"There  's  readin'  f  )r  a  lifetime  in  them,"  he  said. 
"  I  was  juist  takkin  a  look  through  them." 

219 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUiMS. 

His  face  was  guilty,  however,  as  if  his  hand  had 
been  caught  in  a  money-bag,  and  I  wondered  what 
had  enticed  the  lad  to  my  books.  I  was  still 
standing  pondering  when  Lccby  ran  up  the  stair; 
she  was  so  active  that  she  generally  ran,  and  she 
grudged  the  time  lost  in  recovering  her  breath. 

'"  I  '11  put  yer  books  richt,"  she  said,  making 
her  word  good  as  she  spoke.  "  I  kcnt  Jamie  had 
been  ransackin'  up  here,  though  he  cam  up  rale 
canny.  Ay,  ye  would  notice  he  was  in  his  stockin' 
soles." 

I  had  not  noticed  this,  but  I  remembered  now 
his  slipping  from  the  room  very  softly.  If  he 
wanted  a  book,  I  told  Leeby  he  could  have  got  it 
without  an)'  display  of  cunning. 

"  It 's  no  a  book  he  's  lookin'  for,"  she  said,  "  na 

it 's  his  glove." 

The  time  of  day  was  early  for  Leeby  to  gossip 

but  I  detained  her  for  a  moment. 

"  My  mother's  hodded  it,"  she  explained,  "  an 

he   winna  spcir  nac  qucistions.     But   he's  lookin 

for 't.       He    was   ben    in    the    room    scarchin'    the 

drawers  when  I  was  up  i'  the  toon  in  the  forenoon 

Ye  see  he  pretends  no  to  be  carin'  afore  me,  an 

though    my  mother's   sittin'  sac   quiet-like  at  the 

220 


THE   ATTIC. 


A   TALE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

window  she  's  hcarkenin'  a'   the  time.     Ay,  an'  he 
thocht  I  had  iiod  it  up  here." 

"  But  where,"  I  asked,  "  was  the  glove  hid." 

"  I  ken  nae  mair  than  }'ersel,"  said  Leeby.  "  My 
mother  's  gien  to  hoddin'  things.  She  has  a  phice 
aneath  the  bed  whaur  she  keeps  the  siller,  an'  she  's 
no  speakin'  aboot  the  glove  to  me  noo,  because 
she  thinks  Jamie  an'  me  's  in  comp.  I  speired  at 
her  whaur  she  had  hod  it,  but  she  juist  said,  'What 
would  I  be  doin' hoddin 't?  '  She'll  never  admit 
to  me  'at  she  hods  the  siller  cither." 

Next  day  Leeby  came  to  me  with  the  latest 
news. 

"He's  found  it,"  she  said,  "ay,  he's  got  the 
glove  again.  Ye  see,  what  put  him  on  the  wrang 
scent  was  a  notion  'at  I  had  put  it  some  gait.  He 
kent  'at  if  she  'd  hod  it,  the  kitchen  maun  be  the 
place,  but  he  thocht  she'd  gien  it  to  me  to  hod. 
He  cam  upon  't  by  accident.  It  was  aneath  the 
paddin'  o'  her  chair." 

Here,  T  thought,  was  the  end  of  the  glove 
incident,  but  I  was  mistaken.  There  were  no 
presses  or  drawers  with  locks  in  the  house,  and 
Jess  got  hold  of  the  glove  again.  I  suppose  she 
had   reasoned  out  no  line  of  action.      She  merely 

223 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

hated    the    thought    that    Jamie    should    have    a 
woman's  glove  in  his  possession. 

"  She  beats  a'  wi'  'cuteness,"  Leeby  said  to  me. 
"Jamie  didna  put  the  glove  back  in  his  pouch. 
Na,  he  kens  her  ower  weel  by  this  time.  She  was 
up,  though,  lang  afore  he  was  wauken,  an'  she  gaed 
almost  strecht  to  the  place  w^haur  he  had  hod  it. 
I  believe  she  lay  waukin'  a'  nicht  thinkin'  oot  whaur 
it  would  be.  Ay,  it  was  aneath  the  mattress.  I 
saw  her  hodden  't  i'  the  back  o'  the  drawer,  but  I 
didna  let  on." 

I  quite  believed  Leeby  when  she  told  me  after- 
wards that  she  had  watched  Jamie  feeling  beneath 
the  mattress. 

"  He  had  a  face,"  she  said,  "  I  assure  ye,  he  had 
a  face,  when  he  discovered  the  glove  was  gone 
again." 

"  He  maun  be  terrible  taen  up  aboot  it,"  Jess 
said  to  Leeby,  "  or  he  wouldna  keep  it  aneath  the 
mattress." 

"  Od,"  said  Leeby,  "  it  was  yersel  'at  drove  him 
to   t. 

Again  Jamie  recovered  his  property,  and  again 
Jess  got  hold  of  it.  This  time  he  looked  in  vain. 
I  learnt  the  fate  of  the  glove  from  Leeby. 

224 


A   TALE   OF    A   GLOVI<:. 

"  Yc  mind  ';u  she  kcopit  him  at  liamc  frae  the 
kirk  on  Sabbath,  because  he  had  a  caukl?  "  Leeby 
said.  "  A\',  me  or  m\'  father  woukl  hae  a  t;"e\'  ill 
cauld  afore  she  would  let  's  bide  at  hame  frac  the 
kirk  ;  but  Jamie  's  difterent.  Weel,  mair  tlian  aince 
she  's  been  near  speakin'  to  "im  aboot  the  glox-e,  but 
she  t^rcw  field  aye.  She  was  sae  terrified  there 
was  something,'  in  't. 

"  On  Sabbath,  thouLjh,  she  had  him  to  herscl, 
an'  he  wasna  so  bright  as  usual.  She  sat  wi' 
the  Bible  on  her  lap,  pretendin'  to  read,  but  a' 
the  time  she  was  takkin  keeks  at  him.  I  dinna 
ken  'at  he  was  brood  in'  owcr  the  glove,  but  she 
thocht  he  was,  an'  juist  afore  the  kirk  came  oot 
she  couldna  stand  it  nae  langer.  She  put  her 
hand  in  her  pouch,  an'  pu'd  oot  the  glove,  wi'  the 
paper  round  it,  juist  as  it  had  been  when  she  came 

UlKUl   t. 

"  '  That 's  yours,  Jamie,'  she  saitl ;  '  it  was  ill-tlune 
o'  me  to  tak  it,  but  I  couldna  help  it.' 

"Jamie  put  oot  his  hand,  an'  s\'ne  he  drew't 
back.  '  It's  no  a  thing  o'  nae  conseciuence,  mother,' 
he  said. 

"  '  Wha  is  she,  Jamie?  '  m\'  mother  said. 

15  225 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  He  turned  awa  his  held  —  so  she  telt  mc.  '  It 's 
a  lassie  in  London,'  he  said,  '  I  dinna  ken  her 
muckle.' 

"  'Ye  maun  ken  her  weel,'  my  mother  persisted, 
'  to  be  carryin'  aboot  her  glove ;  I  'm  dootin'  yer 
gey  fond  o'  her,  Jamie?  ' 

"  '  Na,'  said  Jamie,  '  'am  no.  There  's  no  naebody 
I  care  for  like  yersel,  mother.' 

"  '  Ye  wouldna  carry  aboot  onything  o'  mine, 
Jamie,'  my  mother  said  ;  but  he  says,  '  Oh,  mother, 
I  carry  about  yer  face  \vi'  mc  aye;  an'  sometimes 
at  nicht  I  kind  o'  greet  to  think  o'  ye.' 

"  Ay,  after  that  I  'vc  nae  doot  he  was  sittin'  wi' 
his  airms  aboot  her.  She  didna  tell  me  that,  but 
weel  he  kens  it 's  what  she  likes,  an'  she  maks  nae 
pretence  o'  its  no  bein'.  But  for  a'  he  said  an' 
did,  she  noticed  him  put  the  glove  back  in  his 
inside   pouch. 

"'It's  wrang  o'  me,  Jamie,'  she  said,  'but  I 
canna  bear  to  think  o'  ye  carryin'  that  aboot  sae 
carefu'.     No,   I  canna  help  it.' 

"  Weel,  Jamie,  the  crittur,  took  it  oot  o'  his 
pouch,  an'  kind  o'  hesitated.  Syne  he  lays 't  on 
the  back  o'  the  fire,  an'  they  sat  thegither  glowerin' 
at  it. 

226 


A   TALE   OF   A    GLOVE. 

"  '  Noo,  mother,'  he  says, '  you  're  satisfied,  are  yc 
no?' 

"Ay,"  Leeby  ended  her  story,  "she  said  slic 
was  satisfied.  But  she  saw  'at  he  hiid  it  on  the 
fire  fell  fond-like." 


227 


CHAPTER   XX. 


THE   LAST   NIGHT. 


"  JuiST  another  sax  nichts,  Jamie,"  Jess  would  say, 
sadly.  "  Juist  fovver  nichts  noo,  an'  you  '11  be 
awa."  Even  as  she  spoke  seemed  to  come  the 
last  night. 

The  last  night !  Reserve  slipped  unheeded  to 
the  floor.  Hendry  wandered  ben  and  but  the 
house,  and  Jamie  sat  at  the  window  holding  his 
mother's  hand.  You  must  walk  softly  now  if  you 
would  cross  that  humble  threshold.  I  stop  at  the 
door.  Then,  as  now,  I  was  a  lonely  man,  and 
when  the  last  night  came  the  attic  was  the  place 
for  me. 

This  family  affection,  how  good  and  beautiful  it 
is.  Men  and  maids  love,  and  after  many  years 
they  may  rise  to  this.  It  is  the  grand  proof  of  the 
goodness  in  human  nature,  for  it  means  that  the 
more  we  see  of  each  other  the   more  we   find  that 

228 


THE   LAST   NIGHT. 

is  lovable.  If  you  would  cease  to  dislike  a  man, 
try  to  get  nearer  his  heart. 

Leeby  had  no  longer  any  excuse  for  bustling 
about.  l*>verything  was  ready  —  too  soon.  I  Iendr\' 
had  been  to  the  fish-cadger  in  the  s([uare  to  get  a 
bervie  for  Jamie's  supper,  and  Jamie  had  eaten  it, 
trying  to  look  as  if  it  made  him  happier.  His 
little  box  was  packed  and  strapped,  and  stood 
terribl)-  conspicuous  against  the  tlresser.  Jess  had 
packed  it  herself. 

"Ye  manna  trachle  yersel,  mother,"  Jamie  said, 
when  she  had  the  empty  box  pulled  toward  her. 

Leeby  was  wiser. 

"  Let  her  do  't,"  she  wliispered,  "  it  '11  keep  her 
frae  broodin'." 

Jess  tied  ends  of  \-arn  round  the  stockings  to 
keep  them  in  a  little  bundle  by  themselves.  So 
she  did   with  all  the  other  articles. 

"No  'at  it's  ony  great  affairs,"  she  said,  for 
on  the  last  night  they  were  all  thirsting  to  do 
something  for  Jamie  that  would  be  a  great  affair 
to  him. 

"  Ay,  ye  would  wonder,  mother,"  Jamie  said, 
"  when  I  open  my  box  an'  find  a  thing  tied  up  wi' 
strings  sac  carefii",    it  a'  comes  back  to   me  wi'  a 

229 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

rush  wha  did  it,  an'  'am  as  fond  o'  thae  strings  as 
though  they  were  a  grand  present.  There 's  the 
pocky  ye  gae  me  to  keep  sewin'  things  in.  I  get 
the  wifie  I  lodge  \vi'  to  sew  to  me,  but  often  when 
I  come  upon  the  pocky  I  sit  an'  look  at  it." 

Two  chairs  were  backed  to  the  fire,  with  under- 
clothing hanging  upside  down  on  them.  From 
the  string  over  the  fireplace  dangled  two  pairs  of 
much-darned  stockings. 

"  Ye  '11  put  on  baith  thae  pair  o'  stockins,  Jamie," 
said  Jess,  "  juist  to  please  me?  " 

When  he  arrived  he  had  rebelled  against  the 
extra  clothing. 

"Ay,  will    I,    mother?"   he    said    now. 

Jess  put  her  hand  fondly  through  his  ugly 
hair.     How  handsome  she  thought  him. 

"  Ye  have  a  fine  brow,  Jamie,"  she  said.  "  I  mind 
the  day  ye  was  born  sayin'  to  mysel  'at  ye  had  a 
fine  brow." 

"  But  ye  thocht  he  was  to  be  a  lassie,  mother," 
said  Leeby. 

"  Na,  Leeby,  I  didna.  I  kept  sayin'  I  thocht  he 
would  be  a  lassie  because  I  was  fleid  he  would 
be ;  but  a'  the  time  I  had  a  presentiment  he 
would   be    a   laddie.     It    was  wi'   Joey   deein'   sae 

230 


THE    LAST    NIGHT. 

sudden,  an'  I  took  on  sac  terrible  aboot  'im  'at 
I  thocht  a'  alang  the  Lord  would  gie  me  another 
laddie." 

"  /V)-,  1  wanted  'im  to  be  a  laddie  m\-sel,""  said 
Hendr}',  "  so  as  he  could  tak  Joe\''s  jilace-" 

Jess's  head  jerked  back  in\oluntaril\-,  and  Jamie 
ma)-  have  felt  her  hand  shake,  for  he  said  in  a 
voice  out  of  llendr\''s  hearing  — 

"  I  never  took  Joe\-'s  place  wi'  \-e,  mother." 

Jess  pressed  his  hand  tightly  in  her  two  worn 
palms,  but  she  did   not  speak. 

"  Jamie  was  richt  like  Joey  when  he  was  a  bairn," 
Hendry  said. 

Again  Jess's  head  moved,  but  still  she  was 
silent. 

'  They  were  sae  like,"  continued  Mendry,  "  'at 
often   I   called  JaniiL'  hv  Joey's  name." 

Jess  looked  at  her  husband,  and  her  mouth 
opened   and  shut. 

"I  canna  mind  'at  ye  ever  did  that?"  IIendr\' 
said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Na,"  said  Ilc•ndr^^  "you  never  mixed  them 
up.  I  dinna  think  ye  ever  missed  Joey  sae  sair 
as  I  did." 

231 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Leeby  went  ben,  and  stood  in  the  room  in  the 
dark;   Jamie  knew  why. 

"  I  "11  juist  '^div^  ben  an'  speak  to  Leeby  for  a 
meenute,"  he  said  to  his  mother;   "  I  "11  no  be  king." 

"  Ay,  do  that,  Jamie,"  said  Jess.  "  What 
Leeby 's  been  to  me  nae  tongue  can  tell.  Ye 
canna  bear  to  liear  me  speak,  I  ken,  o'  the  time 
when  Hendry  an'  me  '11  be  awa,  but,  Jamie,  when 
that  time  comes  ye '11  no  forget  Leeby?" 

"  I  winna,  mother,  I  winna,"  said  Jamie. 
"  There  '11  never  be  a  roof  ower  me  'at 's  no  hers 
too." 

He  went  ben  and  shut  the  door.  I  do  not  know 
what  he  and  Leeby  said.  Many  a  time  since  their 
earliest  youth  had  these  two  been  closeted  together, 
often  to  make  up  their  little  quarrels  in  each  other's 
arms.  They  remained  a  long  time  in  the  room, 
the  shabby  room  of  which  Jess  and  Leeby  were  so 
proud,  and  whatever  might  be  their  fears  about 
their  mother  they  were  not  anxious  for  themselves. 
Leeby  was  feeling  lusty  and  well,  and  she  could 
not  know  that  Jamie  required  to  be  reminded  of 
his  duty  to  the  folk  at  home.  Jamie  would  have 
laughed  at  the  notion.  Yet  that  woman  in  London 
must  have  been  waiting  for  him  even  then.     Leeby, 

232 


THE    LASl'    NIGHT. 

who  was  about  to  die,  aiul  Jamie,  who  was  to  for- 
get his  mother,  came  back  to  the  kitchen  with  a 
hap[)y  Hght  on  their  faces.  I  lia\e  with  me  stih 
the  look  of  lo\e  thc\'  gave  each  other  before  Jamie 
crossed  over  to  Jess. 

"  Ye  gang  anowcr,  noo,  mother,"  Leeby  said, 
meaning  that  it  was  Jess's  bed-time. 

"  No  }'et,  Leeby,"  Jess  answered,  "  1  '11  sit  up  till 
the  read  in  's  ower. " 

"  I  think  )-e  should  gang,  mother,"  Jamie  said, 
"  an'  I  11  come  an'  sit  aside  ye  after  ye  're  i'  }'er 
bed." 

"  Ay,  Jamie,  I  11  no  hae  }'e  to  sit  aside  me  the 
morn's  nicht,   an'   hap   me  wi'   the  claes." 

"  But  ye  '11  gang  suner  to  yer  betl,  mother." 

"  I  ma\'  gang,  but  I  winna  sleep.  I  '11  a\-e  be 
thinkin'  o'  yc  tossin'  on  tlie  sea.  I  pray  for  }e  a 
lang  time  ilka  nicht,  Jamie." 

"  Ay,  I  ken." 

"  An'  I  pictur  ye  ilka  hour  o'  the  day.  Ye 
never  gang  hame  through  thae  terrible  streets  at 
nicht  but   I  'm   thinkin'  o'  ye." 

"  I  would  tr}'  no  to  be  sae  sad,  mother,"  said 
Leeby.  "  We  've  haen  a  richt  fine  time,  have  we 
no?" 

233 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  It 's  been  an  awfu'  happy  time,"  said  Jess. 
"We've  haen  a  pleasantness  in  oor  lives  'at 
comes  to  few.  I  ken  naebody  'at 's  haen  sae 
muckle  happiness  one  \vy  or  another." 


A    LONG    LIDDED    BED. 

"It's  because  ye 're  sae  guid,  mother,"  said 
Jamie. 

"  Na,  Jamie,  'am  no  guid  ava.     It 's  because  my 

fowk  's  been  sae  guid,  you  an'  Hendry  an'  Leeby 

an'  Joey  when  he  was  livin'.     I  've  got  a  lot  mair 

than  my  deserts." 

234 


THE   LAST   NIGHT. 

"We'll  juist  look  to  mcetin'  next  year  again, 
mother.  To  think  o'  that  keeps  me  up  a'  the 
winter." 

"Ay,  if  it's  the  Lord's  will,  Jamie,  but  'am  gey 
dune  noo,  an'  Hendr\-'s  fell  worn  too." 

Jamie,  the  bo}-  that  he  was,  said,  "  Dinna  speak 
like  that,  mother,"  and  Jess  again  put  her  hand  on 
his  head. 

"Fine  I  ken,  Jamie,"  she  said,  "  'at  all  m\'  days 
on  this  earth,  be  the}'  short  or  lang,  I  'v'e  }'ou  for  a 
staft'  to  lean  on." 

Ah,  many  years  have  gone  since  then,  but  if 
Jamie  be  living  now  he  has  still  those  words  to 
swallow. 

By  and  by  Leeby  went  ben  for  the  Bible,  and 
put  it  into  Hendry's  hands.  He  slowl\'  turned 
over  the  leaves  to  his  fax'ourite  chapter,  the  four- 
teenth of  John's  Gospel.  Always,  on  eventful 
occasions,  did  Hendry  turn  to  the  fourteenth  of 
John. 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled;  ye  believe  in 
God,  believe  also  in  Me. 

"In  My  Father's  house  are  many  mansions ;  if 
it  were  not  so  I  would  iiave  told  )'()u.  I  go  to 
prepare  a  jjlace  f  )r  )'()u." 

235 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

As  Hendry  raised  his  voice  to  read  there  was  a 
great  stiUncss  in  the  kitchen.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  have  been  able  to  show  in  the  most  imper- 
fect way  what  kind  of  man  Hendry  was.  He  was 
dense  in  many  things,  and  the  cleverness  that  was 
Jess's  had  been  denied  to  him.  He  had  less 
book-learning  than  most  of  those  with  whom  he 
passed  his  days,  and  he  had  little  skill  in  talk. 
I  have  not  known  a  man  more  easily  taken  in  by 
persons  whose  speech  had  two  faces,  l^ut  a  more 
simple,  modest,  upright  man  there  never  was  in 
Thrums,  and  I  shall  always  revere  his  memory. 

"  And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I  will 
come  again,  and  receive  you  unto  Myself;  that 
where  I   am,  there  yc  may  be  also." 

The  voice  may  have  been  monotonous.  I  have 
always  thought  that  Hendry's  reading  of  the  Bible 
was  the  most  solemn  and  impressive  I  have  ever 
heard.  He  exulted  in  the  fourteenth  of  John, 
pouring  it  forth  like  one  whom  it  intoxicated 
while  he  read.  He  emphasized  ever}'  other  word  ; 
it  was  so  real  and  grand  to  him. 

We  went  upon  our  knees  while  ffendry  prayed, 
all  but  Jess,  who  could  not.  Jamie  buried  his 
face   in    her   lap.     The    words    Hendry   said    were 

236 


THE    LAST   NIGHT. 

those  he  used  even-  night.  Some,  perhaps,  would 
have  smiled  at  his  i)rayer  to  God  that  we  be  not 
putied  up  witli  riches  nor  with  the  things  of  this 
workl.  I  lis  liead  shook  with  emotion  while  he 
prayed,  and  he  brought  us  very  near  to  the 
throne  of  grace.  "  Do  thou,  O  our  God,"  he 
said,  in  conclusion,  "  spread  Thy  guiding  hand 
over  him  whom  in  Thy  great  mercy  Thou  hast 
brought  to  us  again,  and  do  Thou  guard  him 
through  the  perils  which  come  unto  those  that 
go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  Let  not  our  hearts 
be  trcv.ibled,  neither  let  them  be  afraitl,  for  this  is 
not  our  abiding  home,  and  may  we  all  meet  in 
Th)  house,  where  there  are  man}'  mansions,  and 
where  there  will  be  no  last  night.     Amen." 

It  was  a  silent  kitchen  after  that,  though  the 
lam|)  biu-ned  long  in  Jess's  window.  ]W  its  meagre 
light  \'ou  may  take  a  final  glance  at  the  little  fam- 
ily ;   )'ou  will  never  see  them  together  again. 


237 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

JESS   LEFT   ALONE, 

There  may  be  a  few  who  care  to  know  how  the 
Hves  of  Jess  and  Hendry  ended.  Leeby  died  in 
the  back-end  of  the  year  I  have  been  speaking 
of,  and  as  I  was  snowed  up  in  the  school-house 
at  the  time,  I  heard  the  news  from  Gavin  Birse 
too  late  to  attend  her  funeral.  She  got  her  death 
on  the  commonty  one  day  of  sudden  rain,  when 
she  had  run  out  to  bring  in  her  washing,  for  the 
terrible  cold  she  woke  with  next  morninsr  carried 
her  ofif  very  quickly.  Leeby  did  not  blame  Jamie 
for  not  coming  to  her,  nor  did  I,  for  I  knew  that 
even  in  the  presence  of  death  the  poor  must  drag 
their  chains.  He  never  got  Hendry's  letter  with 
the  news,  and  we  know  now  that  he  was  already  in 
the  hands  of  her  who  played  the  devil  with  his 
life.  Before  the  spring  came  he  had  been  lost 
to  Jess. 

238 


JESS    LEFT   ALONE. 

"  Thcin  'at  has  L;"(^t  sae  niony  blcssins  iiiair 
than  the  gcnorahty,"  Ilcndry  said  to  mo  one  day, 
when  Craigiebuckle  had  given  me  a  Hft  into 
Thrunis,  "  has  nae  shame  if  they  would  pray  aye 
for  mair.  The  Lord  has  gien  this  hoose  sac 
tnuckle,  'at   to   pra\'   for   mair   looks   like   no  bein' 


THK    ( OMMONTY. 


tliankhr  for  what  we  've  got.  Ay,  but  T  canna 
help  iirax'in'  to  Him  'at  in  His  great  mercy  He'll 
tak  Jess  afore  me.  Noo  'at  Lceby  's  gone,  an' 
Jamie  ne\'er  lets  us  hear  frae  him,  1  canna  gulp 
doon  the  thocht  o'  Jess  bcin'  left  alane." 

This    was    a   prayer   that   Hendry   may   be   par- 

239 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

doned  for  having  so  often  in  liis  heart,  though 
God  did  not  think  fit  to  grant  it.  In  Thrums, 
when  a  weaver  died,  his  womenfolk  had  to  take 
his  seat  at  the  loom,  and  those  who,  by  reason  of 
infirmities,  could  not  do  so,  went  to  a  place,  the 
name  of  which,  1  thank  God,  I  am  not  compelled 


7"*«fc;:?>^c  "-•'"■ 


TIIF.    POORHOUSE. 


to  write  in  this  chapter.  I  could  not,  even  at  this 
day,  have  told  any  episodes  in  the  life  of  Jess  had 
it  ended  in  the  poorhouse. 

Hendry  would  probabh^  have  recovered  fi-om 
the  fever  had  not  this  terrible  dread  darkened 
his  intellect  when  he  was  still  prostrate.  He  was 
lying  in   the  kitchen  when   I   saw  him  last  in  life, 

240 


JKSS    LEFT   ALONE. 

and    liis    [)artin;^    words    must    be    sadder    to    the 
reader  than   thc\'  were  to   me. 

"  A}%  richt  \e  are,"  he  said,  in  a  \(»ice  th.it 
had  become  a  child's;  "I  hae  muckle,  nuicklc, 
to  be  thanktu'  for,  an'  no  the  least  is  'at  baith 
me  an"  Jess  has  aye  belonged  to  a  bural  st>ciety. 
We  hae  nac  cause  to  be  anxious  aboot  a  thing 
bein'  dune  respectable  aince  we're  gone.  It  was 
Jess  'at  insisted  on  oor  joinin' :  a'  the  w  isest  things 
I  ev^er  did  I  was  put  u[)  to  b}'  her." 

I  parted  h'om  I  lendry,  cheered  by  the  doctor's 
report,  but  the  old  weaver  died  a  few  days  after- 
wards. His  end  was  mournful,  \et  I  can  recall  it 
now  as  the  not  unworthy  close  of  a  good  man's 
life.  One  night  poor  worn  Jess  had  been  helped 
ben  into  the  room,  Tibbie  Birsc  ha\ing  under- 
taken to  sit  up  with  ilrndr).  Jess  slept  fir  the 
first  time  for  man\-  da\s,  and  as  the  night  was 
dvine  Tibbie  fell  asleep  too.  Hendrx'  had  been 
better  than  usual,  l\ing  c]uietly,  Tibbie  said,  antl 
the  fe\'er  was  gone.  iMjout  three  o'clock  1  ibbie 
woke  and  rose  to  mend  the  hre.  Then  she  saw 
that    Ilendr)-   was   not    in   his   be'd. 

Tibbie  went  ben  the  house  in  her  stocking-soles, 
but  Jess  heard  her. 

i6  241 


A    WINDOW    IN    'I'HRUMS. 

"  What  is  't,  Tibbie?  "  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Oil,  it's  no  naething,"  Tibbie  said,  "  he's  lyin' 
rale  quiet." 

Then  she  went  up  to  the  attic.  Hendry  was  not 
in  the  house. 

She  opened  the  door  gently  and  stole  out.  It 
was  not  snowing,  but  there  had  been  a  hea\'\'  fall 
two  days  before,  and  the  night  was  windy.  A 
tearing  gale  had  blown  the  upper  part  of  the 
brae  clear,  and  from  T'nowhead's  fields  the  snow 
was  risinsj  like  smoke.  Tibbie  ran  to  the  farm 
and  woke  up  T'nowhead. 

For  an  ht)ur  the)'  loe^kcd  in  vain  for  Hendry. 
At  last  some  one  asked  who  was  working  in 
Elshioner's  shop  all  night.  This  was  the  long 
earthen-floored  room  in  which  Hendry's  loom 
stood   with  three   others. 

"  It  '11  be  Sanders  W'hamond  likely,''  T'nowhead 
said,  and  the  other  men  nodded. 

But  it  happened  that  T'nowhead's  Bell,  who 
had  flung  on  a  wrapper,  and  hastened  across  to 
sit  with  Jess,  heard  of  the  light  in  h^lshioner's 
shop. 

"It's  Hendry,"  she  cried,  and  then  every  one 
moved  toward  the  workshop. 

242 


JESS   LEFT   ALONE. 

The  light  at  the  diminutive,  yarn-covered  win- 
dow was  pale  and  dim,  but  Bell,  who  was  at  tiic 
house  first,  could  make  the  most  of  a  cruizey's 
glimmer. 

"It's  him,"  she  said,  and  then,  with  swelling 
throat,  she  ran  back  to  Jess. 

The  door  of  the  workshop  was  wide  open,  held 
against  the  wall  b}-  the  wind.  T'nowhead  and 
the  others  went  in.  The  cruizey  stood  on  the  lit- 
tle window.  Hendr)^'s  back  was  to  the  door,  and 
he  was  leaning  forward  on  the  silent  loom.  He 
had  been  dead  for  some  time,  but  his  fellow- 
workers  saw  that  he  must  have  weaved  for  nearly 
an  hour. 

So  it  came  about  that  for  the  last  few  months 
of  her  pilgrimage  Jess  was  left  alone.  Yet  I  may 
not  say  that  she  was  alone.  Jamie,  who  should 
have  been  with  her,  was  undergoing  his  own  or- 
deal far  away;  where,  we  did  not  now  even  know, 
iiut  though  the  poorhouse  stands  in  Thrums, 
where  all  may  see  it,  the  neighboms  ilid  not  think 
onl)-  of  themselves. 

Than  Tarnmas  Ilaggart  there  can  scarceh"  ha\e 
been  a  poorer  man,  but  Tammas  was  the  first  to 
come  forward   with   offer  of  help.      To  the  thi)'  of 

243 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Jess's  death  he  did  not  once  fail  to  carry  her  water 
to  her  in  the  morning,  and  the  kixurionsly  hving 
men  of  Thrums  in  these  present  days  of  pumps  at 
every  corner  can  hardly  realize  what  that  meant. 


AN    OLD    PUMP. 


Often  there  were  lines  of  people  at  the  well  by 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  each  had  to  wait 
his  turn.  Tammas  filled  his  own  pitcher  and  pan, 
and  then  had  to  take  his  place  at  the  end  of  the 

244 


JESS    LEFT    ALONE. 

line  with  Jess's  pitcher  and  pan,  to  wait  liis  turn 
again.  His  own  house  was  in  the  Tenements,  far 
from  the  brae  in  winter  time,  jjut  he  alwa}s  saitl  to 
Jess  it  was  "  naelhing  ava." 

Iu-er\-  Saturthu-  old  Robbie  Anfjus  sent  a  ba<r 
of  sticks  and  sha\inL;s  from  the  saw-mill  1)\'  his 
little  son  R(tb.  who  was  afterwards  to  become  a 
man  for  speaking  about  at  nights.  Of  all  the 
friends  that  Jess  and  Hendry  had,  T'nouhead  was 
the  ablest  to  helj^  and  the  sweetest  memory  I 
ha\'e  of  the  farmer  and  his  wife  is  tlu'  delicate 
way  they  offered  it.  You  who  read  will  see  Jess 
wince  at  the  offer  of  charitx'.  Hut  the  poor  have 
fine  feelings  beneath  the  grinn",  as  \'ou  will  discover 
if  )-ou  care  to  look  f  ;r  them,  and  when  Jess  said 
she  would  bake  if  an)-  one  would  buy,  )<)U  would 
wonder  to  hear  how  man\'  kindl\'  folk  came  to  her 
door  for  scones. 

She  had  the  house  to  herself  at  night,  but  Tibbie 
Hirse  was  with  lu  r  carl)-  in  the  morning,  and  other 
neighbours  dropped  in.  Not  for  long  did  she  ha\'e 
to  wait  the  sununons  to  the  better  home. 

"  Na,"  she  said  to  the  minister,  who  has  told  me 
that  he  was  a  bitter  man  from  knowing  her,  "my 
thochts  is   no  naui'  set   on    the  \aiiities  o'  the  world 

245 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS. 

noo.  I  kenna  hoo  I  could  ever  hac  hacn  sic  an 
ambeetion  to  hac  thae  stuff-bottomed  chairs." 

I  have  tried  to  keep  away  from  Jamie,  whom  the 
neighbours  sometimes  upbraided  in  her  presence. 
It  is  of  him  you  who  read  would  like  to  hear,  and 
I  cannot  pretend  that  Jess  did  not  sit  at  her  window 
looking  for  him. 

"Even  when  she  was  bakin',"  Tibbie  told  me, 
"  she  aye  had  an  eye  on  the  brae.  If  Jamie  had 
come  at  ony  time  when  it  was  licht  she  would  hae 
seen  'im  as  sune  as  he  turned  the  corner." 

"  If  he  ever  comes  back,  the  sacket,"  T'nowhead 
said  to  Jess,  "  we'll  show  'im  the  door  gey  quick." 

Jess  just  looked,  and  all  the  women  knew  how 
she  would  take  Jamie  to  her  arms. 

We  did  not  know  of  the  London  woman  then, 
and  Jess  never  knew  of  her.  Jamie's  mother  never 
for  an  hour  allowed  that  he  had  become  anything 
but  the  loving  laddie  of  his  youth. 

"  I  ken  'im  ower  weel,"  she  always  said,  "  my  ain 
amie. 

Toward  the  end  she  was  sure  he  was  dead.  I 
do  not  know  when  she  first  made  up  her  mind  to 
this,  nor  whether  it  was  not  merely  a  phrase  for 
those  who  wanted  to  discuss  him  with  her.     I  know 

246 


H 

H 
P) 

s 

cn 


JESS    LEFT  ALONE. 

that  she  still  sat  at  the  \vind(n\'  looking  at  the  elbow 
of  the  brae. 

The  minister  was  with  her  when  she  tlied.  She 
was  in  her  ehaii',  and  he  asked  her,  as  was  his 
custom,  if  there  was  an\-  particular  cha])ler  which 
she  would  like  him  to  reael.  Since  her  husband's 
tleath  she  had  always  asked  for  the  fourteenth  of 
John,  "  Hendr}''s  chapter,"  as  it  is  still  called 
among  a  \er\'  few  old  people  in  Thrums.  This 
time  she  asked  him  to  read  the  sixteenth  chapter 
of  Genesis. 

"  When  I  came  to  the  thirteenth  verse,"  the 
minister  told  me,  '-'.And  she  calK'd  the  name  of 
the  Lord  that  spake  unto  her,  Thou  (iod  seest 
me,'  she  coxered  her  face  with  her  two  hands,  and 
said,  '  Joe\-'s  text,  Joey's  text.      Oh,  but   I  grudged 

ye  sair,  Joey.'  " 

"T  shut  the  book,"  the  minister  said,  "  wlien  I 
came  to  the  end  of  the  cha])ter,  and  tlien  I  saw 
that  she  was  dead.  It  is  m\-  brWcf  that  hei  heart 
broke  one-and-twenty  years  ago." 


249 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

JAMIE'S    HOME-COMING. 

On  a  summer  day,  when  the  sun  was  in  the 
weavers'  workshops,  and  bairns  hopped  solemnly 
at  the  game  of  palaulays,  or  gaily  shook  their 
bottles  of  sugarelly  water  into  a  froth,  Jamie  came 
back.  The  first  man  to  see  him  was  Hookey 
Crewe,  the  post. 

"When  he  came  frae  London,"  Hookey  said 
afterwards  at  T'nowhead's  pig-st}',  "  Jamie  used  to 
wait  for  me  at  Zoar,  i'  the  north  end  o'  Tilliedrum. 
He  carried  his  box  ower  the  market  nuiir,  an'  sat 
on  't  at  Zoar,  waitin'  for  me  to  catch  'im  up.  Ay, 
the  day  afore  yesterday  me  an'  the  powny  was 
clatterin'  by  Zoar,  when  there  was  Jamie  standin' 
in  his  identical  place.  He  hadna  nae  box  to  sit 
upon,  an'  he  was  far  frae  bein'  weel  in  order,  but 
I  kent  'im  at  aince,  an'  I  saw  'at  he  was  waitin'  for 
me.     So  I  drew  up,  an'  waved  my  hand  to  'im." 

250 


JAMIE'S    HOMECOMING. 

"I  would  hae  drove  strauclit  b\-  'ini,"  said 
T'nowhead  ;  "  thcni  'at  leaves  their  auld  mother  to 
want  doesna  deserve  a  lift." 

"  Ay,  ye  say  that  sittin'  there,"  Hookey  said ; 
"  but,  lads,  I  saw  his  face,  an'  as  sure  as  death  it 
was  sic  an'  awfu'  meeserable  face  'at  I  couldna  hut 
pu'  the  po\\n\-  up.  W'cel,  he  stond  for  the  space 
o'  a  meenute  lookin'  strauclit  at  me,  as  if  he  would 
like  to  come  forrit  but  dauredna,  an'  syne  he 
turned  an'  strided  awa  ouer  the  nniir  like  a  huntit 
thin^^  I  sat  still  i'  the  cart,  an'  when  he  was  far 
awa  he  stoppit  an'  lookit  again,  but  a'  ni}-  cr)in' 
wouldna  bring  him  a  step  back,  an'  i'  the  end 
I  drove  on.  I '\e  thocht  since  s\'ne  'at  he  ditlna 
ken  whether  his  fowk  was  li\-in'  or  deid,  an'  was 
fleid  to  speir." 

"  He  didna  ken,"  said  T'nowhead.  "  but  the  faut 
was  his  ain.  It's  ower  late  to  be  taen  up  aboot 
Jess  noo." 

"Ay,  a\-,  T'nou  head,"  said  Hookey,  "  it 's  ais\- 
to  you  to  speak  like  that.     ^V■  didna  sci-  his  face." 

It  is  believed  that  Jamie  walked  from  Fillie- 
drum,  though  no  one  is  known  to  ha\e  nut  him 
on  tin-  road.  Some  two  hours  after  the  ]iost  left 
him  he  was  seen  b)'  old  Rob  y\n5j;us  at  the  sawmill. 

251 


A   WINDOW    IN     THRUMS. 


"  I  was  sawin'  awa  \vi'  a'  my  micht,"  Rob  said, 
"  an'  little  Rob  was  hautlin'  tlic  booards,  for  they 
were    sill}-   but   tilings,   when   something  made   me 

look    at   the    window. 
Itcouldna  hae,beena 
tap  on  't,  for  the  birds 
has  used   me  to   that, 
an'  it  would  hardl\-  be 
a    shadow,    for    little 
Rob   didna    look    up. 
Whatev^er     it    was     I 
stoppit  i'   the    middle 
o'  a  booard,  an  lookit 
up,    an'   there     I    saw 
J  a  m  i  e     M  c  O  u  m  p  h  a . 
He  joukit  back  when 
our    een    met,    but    I 
saw  him  weel ;  ay,  it 's 
a  queer  thing  to  say 
but  he  had  the  face  o' 
a  man    'at  had  come 
straucht    frae    hell. 
"  I    stood   starin'   at    the   window,"    Angus  con- 
tinued, "  after  he  'd   gone,  an'  Robbie  cried  oot  to 
ken  what  was  the  maiter  wi'  me.     Ay,  that  brocht 

252 


SUGARELLY    WATIiK. 


JAMIE'S    HOME-COMING. 

mc  back  to  nix'sel,  an'  T  liu tried  oot  to  look  for 
Jamie,  but  he  wasna  to  be  seen.  That  face  _L;ae 
me  a  turn." 

From  the  saw-mill    to  the  house  at   the  top  of 
the  brae,  some  may  remember,  the  road  is  up  the 


ZO.\R. 


conmiiMil)'.  I  do  not  think  an\'  one  saw  Jamie  on 
the  conmiontN'.  tliou;^h  there  were  those  to  say 
the>'   met  him. 

"He  sae  me  sic   a  look,"  a  woman  said,  "'at  I 
was   fleid   an'  r.ui    iianie,"  but   she   tlid    not   tell   the 

253 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

story   until    Jamie's   home-coming   had    become   a 
legend. 

There  were  many  women  hanging  out  their 
washing  on  the  commonty  that  day,  and  none 
of  them  saw   him.     I    think  Jamie  must   have  ap- 


OLD    MILL. 


proached  his  old  home  by  the  fields,  and  probably 
he  held  back  until  gloaming. 

The  young  woman  who  was  now  mistress  of  the 
house  at  the  top  of  the  brae  bx>th  saw  and  spoke 
with  Jamie. 

254 


JAMIE'S    HOMK-COiMlNG. 

"  Twa  or  three  times,"  she  said,  "  I  had  seen  a 
man  walk  quick  up  the  brae  an'  b\'  the  door.  It 
was  gettin'  dark,  but   1  noticed  'at  he  was  short  an' 


THI'.    fiA  1  I       1<)    nKNDKV'S    COT. 


thin,  an'  I  would  hae  said  he  wasna  nane  wee!  if 
it  iiadiia  bec-n  'at  he  gat'd  by  at  sic  a  steek.  He 
didna  look  our  u\'     -at  least  no  wlu'U  he  was  close 

255 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS. 

up,  an'  I  set  'im  doon  for  some  gaen  aboot  body. 
Na,  I  saw  naething  aboot  'itn  to  be  flcid  at. 

"  The  aucht  o'clock  bell  was  riiigin'  when  I  saw 
'im  to  speak  to.  My  twa-year-auld  bairn  was 
standi n'  aboot  the  door,  an'  I  was  makkin  some 
porridge  for  my  man's  supper  when  I  heard  the 
bairny  skirlin'.  She  cam  runiiin'  in  to  the  hoose 
an'  hung  i'  my  wrapper,  an'  she  was  hingin' 
there,  when  I  gaed  to  the  door  to  see  what  was 
wrang. 

"  It  was  the  man  I  'd  seen  passin'  the  hoose. 
He  was  standin'  at  the  gate,  which,  as  a'body 
kens,  is  but  sax  steps  frae  the  hoose,  an'  I  won- 
dered at  'im  neither  runnin'  awa  nor  comin'  forrit. 
I  speired  at  'im  what  he  meant  by  terrif}'in'  a 
bairn,  but  he  didna  say  naething.  He  juist  stood. 
It  was  ower  dark  to  see  his  face  richt,  an'  I  wasna 
nane  taen  aback  yet,  no  till  he  spoke.  Oh,  but 
he  had  a  fearsome  word  when  he  did  speak.  It 
was  a  kind  o'  like  a  man  hoarse  wi'  a  cauld,  an' 
yet  no  that  either. 

"  '  Wha  bides  i'  this  hoose? '  he  said,  aye  standin' 
there. 

"  '  It 's  Davit  Patullo's  hoose,'  I  said,  '  an'  'am 
the  wife.' 

256 


JAMIE'S   HOME-COMING. 

"  'Whaur's  Hendry  McOumpha?'  ho  spcircd. 

"  '  He  's  dcid;  I  said. 

"  He  stood  still  for  a  fell  while. 

"  '  An'  his  wife,  Jess?  '  he  said. 

"  '  She  's  deid,  too,'  I  said. 

"  I  thocht  he  gae  a  groan,  but  it  nia)'  hae  been 
the  gate. 

"  '  There  was  a  dochter,  Leeby?'  he  said. 

"  '  Ay,'  I  said,  '  she  was  taen  first.' 

"  I  saw  'ini  put  up  his  hands  to  his  faee,  an'  he 
cried  oot,  '  Leeby  too  !  '  an'  syne  he  kind  o'  fell 
agin  the  dyke.  I  never  kent  'im  nor  nane  o'  his 
fowk,  but  I  had  heard  aboot  them,  an'  I  saw  'at  it 
would  be  the  son  frae  London.  It  wasna  for  me 
to  judge  'im,  an'  I  said  to  'im  would  he  no  come 
in  by  an'  tak  a  rest.  I  was  nearer  'im  by  that 
time,  an'  it's  an  awfu'  haver  to  say  'at  he  had  a 
face  to  frichten  fowk.  It  was  a  rale  guid  face,  but 
no  ava  what  a  body  would  like  to  see  on  a  young 
man.  I  felt  niair  like  greetin'  mysel  when  I  saw 
his  face  than  drawin'  awa  frae  'im. 

"But  he  wouldna  come  in.      'Rest,'  he  saiti,  like 

ane  si^eakin'  to   'imsel,  '  na,  there  's  nae  mair  rest 

for  ine.'     I  didna  weel  ken  what  mair  t(^  say  to  'im, 

fur  he  aye  stood   on,  an'  I  wasna  even  sure  'at  he 

17  257 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

saw  me.  He  raised  his  heid  when  he  heard  me 
telHn'  the  bairn  no  to  tear  my  wrapper. 

"  '  Dinna  set  yer  heart  ower  muckle  on  that 
bairn,'  he  cried  oot,  sharp  hke.  '  I  was  aince  hke 
her,  an'  I  used  to  hing  aboot  my  mother,  too,  in 
that  very  roady.  Ay,  I  thocht  I  was  fond  o'  her, 
an'  she  thocht  it  too.  Tak  a  care,  woman,  'at  that 
bairn  doesna  grow  up  to  murder  ye.' 

"  He  gae  a  kuich  when  he  saw  me  tak  hand  o' 
the  bairn,  an'  syne  a'  at  aince  he  gaed  awa  quick. 
But  he  wasna  far  doon  the  brae  when  he  turned 
an'  came  back. 

"  '  Ye '11,  mebbe,  tell  me,'  he  said,  richt  low, 
'  if  ye  hae  the  furniture  'at  used  to  be  my 
mother's?' 

"  '  Na,'  I  said,  '  it  was  roupit,  an'   I   kenna  whaur 

the  things  gaed,  for  me  an'  my  man  comes  frae 
Tilliedrum.' 

"  '  Ye  wouldna  hae  heard,'  he  said,  '  wha  got  the 
muckle  airm-chair  'at  used  to  sit  i'  the  kitchen  i' 
the  window  'at  looks  ower  the  brae?' 

"  '  I  couldna  be  sure,'  I  said,  '  but  there  was  an 
airm-chair  'at  gaed  to  Tibbie  Birse.  If  it  was  the 
ane  ye  mean,  it  a'  gaed  to  bits,  an'  I  think  they 
burned  it.     It  was  gey  dune.' 

258 


JAMIE'S   HOME-COMING. 

"  '  A}','  he  said,  '  it  was  gey  dune.* 

"  ■  There  was  the  chairs  ben  i'  the  room,'  he 
said,  after  a  while. 

"  I  said  I  thocht  Sanders  Elshioner  had  got  them 
at  a  bargain  because  twa  o'  them  was  mended  wi' 
glue,  an'  gey  silly. 

"  '  Ay,  that 's  them,'  he  said,  '  they  were  richt 
neat  mended.  It  was  my  mother  'at  glued  them. 
I  mind  o'  her  makkin  the  glue,  an'  warnin'  me 
an'  ni)'  father  no  to  sit  on  them.  There  was 
the  clock  too,  an'  the  stool  'at  my  mother  got  oot 
an'  into  her  bed  wi',  an'  the  basket  'at  Leeby 
carried  when  she  gaed  the  errands.  The  straw 
was  aff  the  handle,  an'  my  father  mended  it  wi' 
strings.' 

"'I  dinna  ken,'  I  said,  'whaur  nane  o'  thae 
gaed  ;    but  did  yer  mother  hae  a  staff? ' 

"  '  A  little  staff,'  he  said  ;  '  it  was  near  black  wi' 
age.  She  couldna  gang  frae  the  bed  to  her  chair 
withoot  it.  It  was  broadened  oot  at  the  foot  wi' 
her  leanin'  on  't  sae   muckle.' 

"  '  I  've  heard  tell,'  I  said,  '  'at  the  dominie  up  i' 
Glen  Quharity  took  awa  the  staff.' 

"lie  didna  sjieir  for  nae  other  thing.  He  had 
the  gate  in  his  hand,  but   I  diima  think  he  kent  'at 

259 


A   WINDOW   IN    THRUMS. 

he  was  swingin  't  back  an'  forrit.     At   last   he  let 
it  go. 

"  '  That 's  a','  he  said,  '  I  maun  awa.  Good-nicht, 
an'  thank  ye  kindh'.' 

"  I  watched  'im  till  he  gaed  oot  o'  sicht.  He 
gaed  down  the  brae." 

We  learnt  afterwards  from  the  grax-edigger  that 
some  one  spent  a  great  part  of  that  night  in  the 
graveyard,  and  we  believe  it  to  have  been  Jamie. 
He  walked  up  the  glen  to  the  school-house  next 
forenoon,  and  I  went  out  to  meet  him  when  I  saw 
him  coming  down  the  path. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  it's  me  come  back." 

I  wanted  to  take  him  into  the  house  and  speak 
with  him  of  his  mother,  but  he  would  not  cross 
the  threshold. 

"I  cam  oot,"  he  said,  "to  see  if  ye  would  gie 
me  her  staff  —  no  'at  I  deserve  't." 

I  brought  out  the  staff  and  handed  it  to  him. 
thinking  that  he  and  I  would  soon  meet  again. 
As  he  took  it  I  saw  that  his  e}^es  were  sunk  back 
into  his  head.  Two  great  tears  hung  on  his  eye- 
lids, and  his  mouth  closed  in  agony.  He  stared  at 
me  till  the  tears  fell  upon  his  cheeks,  and  then  he 
went  away. 

260 


JAMIE'S    HOME-COMING. 

That  evening  he  was  seen  b\'  many  persons 
crossing  the  square.  He  went  up  the  brae  to  his 
old  home,  and  asked  leave  to  go  through  the 
house  for  the  last  time.  First  he  climbed  up 
into  the  attic,  and  stood  looking  in,  his  feet 
still  on  the  stair.  Then  he  came  down  and 
stood  at  the  door  of  the  room,  but  he  went  into 
the    kitchen. 

"  I  '11  ask  one  last  favour  o'  ye,"  he  said  to  the 
woman;  "I  would  like  ye  to  leave  me  here  alane 
for  juist  a  little  while." 

"  I  gaed  oot,"  the  woman  said,  "  meanin'  to 
leave  'im  to  'imsel',  but  my  bairnie  wouldna  come, 
an'  he  said,  '  Never  mind  her,'  so  I  left  her  wi'  'im, 
an'  closed  the  door.  He  was  in  a  lang  time,  but 
I  never  kent  what  he  did,  for  the  bairn  juist  aye 
greets  when  I  speir  at  her. 

"  I  watched  'im  frae  the  corner  window^  g^i"'tJ 
doon  the  brae  till  he  cam  to  the  corner.  I  thocht 
he  turned  round  there  an'  stood  lookin'  at  the 
hoose.  He  would  see  me  better  than  I  saw  him, 
for  my  lam[)  was  i'  the  window,  whaur  I  've  heard 
tell  his  mother  keepit  her  cruizey.  When  my 
man  came  in  I  speired  at  'im  if  he  'd  seen  ony- 
body   standin'   at   the   corner   o'    the    brae,    an'   he 

261 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

said  he  thocht  he  'd  seen  somebody  wi'  a  Httle 
staff  in  his  hand.  Davit  gaed  doon  to  see  if 
he  was  aye  there  after  supper-time,  but  he  was 
gone." 

Jamie  was  never  again  seen  in  Thrums. 


262 


GLOSSARY. 


GLOSSARY. 


Page 

1.  Brae.     A  steep  roadway,  path,  or  hillside. 

1.  Hendry.     Equivalent  to  Henry. 

1.  Dyke.     Stone  wall. 

2.  Leeby.     Short  for  Elizabeth. 

3.  Dambrod.     Checkerboard. 

7.  Ben  in  the  room.     In  the  parlour  or  best  room. 

9.  Roup.     Auction,  or  sale. 

10.  Palaulays.     Hopscotch. 

11.  Peerie.     Top. 

11.  Hunkering.     Squattins;. 

11,  I-dree-I-dree  —  I  droppit  it.     Drop  the  handkerchief. 

17.  Chief.     Great  friends. 

21.  Kimmer.     A  voung  woman. 

24.  U.  P.'s.     United  Presbyterians. 
26.  Brandering.     Toasting. 

20.  Michty.     Strange. 

20.  Steer.     Noise. 

28.  Besom.     A  brush  about  thirty  inches  long  made  of 

twigs. 

28.  Dicht.      Wipe  with  a  wet  cloth. 

25.  Mutch.     Cap. 

2!J.  Spleet.      Perfectly. 

30.  Tid.     Toad. 

33.  Dive.      IJother. 

33.  Dickey.     A  starched  collar  and  bosom  combined. 

265 


GLOSSARY. 

Page 

35.  Chap.     Knock. 

47.  Fettle.     Good  humour. 

47.  Yoked.     Ready  to  start. 

49.  Snuff-mull.      Snuff-box. 

61.  Fell.     (A  superlative.)     Large,  or  considerably. 

66.  Thieval.     Stick  to  stir  porridge  with. 

69.  Red  up.     Clean  up. 

70.  Syne.     Then,  since,  ago. 

70.  Pirn.     Spool. 

71.  Dawty.     Dear. 

72.  Field.     Frightened. 
72.  Fleg.     Fright. 

74.  Deve  's.     Weary  us. 

75.  Precentor.     Leader  of  singing. 
80.  Wise-like.     Presentable. 

80.  Cried.     Called. 

80.  DraTv  my  leg.     Deceive  me. 

8.3.  Hale  watter.     Very  wet. 

84.  Winsey.     A  coarse  woollen  cloth. 

88.  Blether.     Talk  nonsense. 

89.  Bannocks.      Large  oaten  cakes  toasted  over  the  fire. 
91.  Fell  dune.     Completely  worn  out. 

91.  Gaen  aboot  body.     Vagrant. 

96.  Brose.     Oatmeal  stirred  up  thick  in  boiling  water. 

96.  Haver.     Piece  of  nonsense. 

lOL  Stocky.     Body. 

101.  Weel  faured.     Good-looking. 

102.  Kyow-owy.     Particular. 
106.  Sepad.     Uphold. 

116.  Uptake.     Understanding  of. 

121.  Steadin'.     Outbuildings. 

121.  Skirled.      Out  of  their  wits. 

123.  Dour.      Ill-humoured. 

124.  Egyptians.     Gypsies. 

266 


GLOSSARY. 

Page 

124.  Tinkler.     Gypsy. 

124.  Flichtered.     Scared. 

128.  Lousing.     Stopping. 

134.  Pit    potatoes.     To    bury    them    in    the    ground    for 

winter. 

141.  Doited.     Silly. 

148.  Feikieness.     Fussiness. 

148.  Perjink.     Trim. 

152.  Tove.     Talk. 

154.  Silvendy.     Safe. 

155.  Mask.     Ouantity. 
157.  Hod.     Hide. 

164.  Marrows.     Mates. 

164.  Delvin'.     Digging. 

165.  Clink.     Flash. 

166.  Blatter.     Beat. 
172.  Keekin'.     Peering. 

178.  Rozetty  roots.     Roots  with  pitch  in  tliem  for  use  as 

kindlings. 

ISI.  Machine.     Vehicle. 

182.  Tatties.     Potatoes. 

182.  Settle.     Comfort. 

202.  Priggiu'.     Begging. 

203.  Grat.     Cried. 

203.  Pirly.     Money-box. 

204.  Curran.     Many. 

205.  Baw^bees.     Half-pennies. 

213.  Wag-at-the-wa'  clock.       One    with    pendulum     and 
weiL^hts  exposed. 

217.  Fell  thrawn.     Very  surly. 

218.  Dottle.     Silly. 
218.  Syllup.     Syllable. 
223.  Comp.     Company. 
225.  Keeks,     (dances. 

267 


GLOSSARY. 

Page 

226.  Gey.     Very. 

229.  Trackle.     Trouble. 

2:30.  Pocky.     Little  bag. 

233.  Hap.     Cover. 

246.  Sacket.     Rascal. 

250.  Sugarelly   water.     A   drink    the    children    make    by 

dissolving  licorice  in  a  bottle  of  water. 

252.  Silly  but.     Uncertain. 

252.  Joukit.     Jerked. 

259.  Gey  silly.     Very  shaky. 


268 


GLOSSARY. 


Page 

89.  Baunocks.     Large  oaten  cakes  toasted  over  the  fire. 

205.  Bawbees      Half-pennies. 

7.  Ben  in  the  room.      In  the  parlour,  or  best  room. 

28.  Besom.      A  brush  about  thirty  inches  long,  made  of 

twigs. 

166.  Blatter.      Beat. 

88.  Blether.     Talk  nonsense. 

1.  Brae.     A  steep  roadway,  path,  or  hillside. 

26.  Brandering.     Toasting. 

96.  Brose.     Oatmeal  stirred  up  thick  in  boiling  water. 

35.  Chap.     Knock. 

17.  Chief.     Great  friends. 

165.  Clink.      Flash. 

223.  Comp.      Company. 

80.  Cried      Called. 

201.  Curran.      Many. 

3.  Dambrod      Checkerboard. 

71.  Da-wty.     Dear. 

101.  Delvin'.     Digging. 

74.  Deve  "s.     Weary  us. 

28.  Dicht      Wipe  with  a  wet  cloth. 

33.  Dickey.     .A  starched  collar  and  bosom  combined. 

269 


GLOSSARY, 

Page 

30. 

Dive.     Bother. 

141. 

Doited.     Silly. 

218. 

Dottle.     Silly. 

123. 

Dour.     Ill-humoured. 

80. 

Draw  my  leg.      Deceive  me. 

1. 

Dyke.     Stone  wall. 

124.  Egyptians.     Gypsies. 

148.  Feikieness.     Fussiness. 

61.  Fell.     (A  superlative.)     Large,  or  considerably. 

91.  Fell  dune.     Completely  worn  out. 

217.  Fell  thrawn.     Very  early. 

47.  Fettle.     Good  humour. 

72.  Fleid.     Frightened. 

72.  Fleg.      Fright. 

124.  Flichtered.     Scared. 

01.  Gaen  aboot  body.     Vagrant. 

220.  Gey.     Wry. 

259.  Gey  silly.     Very  shaky. 

203.  Grat.     Cried. 

83.  Hale  -watter.     Very  wet. 

233.  Hap.      Cover. 

96.  Haver.     Piece  of  nonsense. 

1.  Hendry.      Equivalent  to  Henry. 

157.  Hod.      Hide. 

11.  Hunkering.     Squatting. 

11.  I  dree.  I-dree,  I  droppit  it.     Drop  the  handkerchief. 
A  children's  game. 

252.  Joukit.     Jerked. 

270 


GLOSSARY. 

Page 

172.  Keekin  .     Peering. 

225.  Keeks.     Glances. 

21.  Kimmer,     A  young  woman. 

102.  Kyow-owy.     Particuhir. 

2.  Leeby.     Short  for  Elizabeth. 

128.  Lousing.     Stopping. 

181.  Machine.     Veliicle. 

164.  Marrows.     Mates. 

155.  Mask.     Ouantity. 

26.  Michty      Strange,  mighty,  great. 

2y.  Mutch.     Woman's  cap. 

1(1.  Palaulays.     Hopscotch. 

11.  Peerie.     Top. 

lis.  Perjink.     Trim. 

203.  Pirly.     Money-box. 

70.  Pirn.      Spool. 

134.  Pit    potatoes.      To    bury    them    in    the    ground    for 

w  inter. 

230.  Pocky.     Little  bag. 

75.  Precentor.     Leader  of  singing. 

202.  Priggin".     Begging. 

09.  Red  up.     Clean  up. 

9.  Roup.      Auction  or  sale. 

178,  Rozetty  roots-     Roots  with  pitch  in  them,  for  use  as 


kindlings. 

210. 

Sacket.      Rascal. 

100. 

Sepad.     Uphold. 

182. 

Settle.      Conilort. 

252. 

Silly  but.      Uncertain. 

271 

GLOSSARY. 

Page 

15i.  Silveiidy.     Gape. 

121.  Skilled.     Out  of  their  wits. 

49.  Snuff-mull.     Snuff-box. 

29.  Spleet.     Perfectly. 
26.  Steer.     Noise. 

121.  Stradin'.     Outbuildings. 

101.  Stocky.     Body. 

250.  Sugarelly    water.     A    drink    the    children   make    by 
dissolving  licorice  in  a  bottle. 

70.  Syne.     Then,  since,  go. 

218.  Syllup.     Syllable. 

182.  Tatties.     Potatoes. 

66.  Thieval.     Stick  to  stir  porridge  with. 

30.  Tid.     Toad. 

124.  Tinkler.     Gypsy. 

152.  Tove.     Talk. 

229.  Trachle.     Trouble. 

21.  U.  P.'s.     United  Presbyterians. 

116.  Uptake.     Understanding  of. 

213.  Wag-at-the-wa'    clock.     One    with    pendulum    and 

weights  exposed. 

101.  Weel  faured.     Good-looking. 

84.  Winsey.     A  coarse  woollen  cloth. 

80.  Wise-like.     Presentable. 

47.  Yoked.     Ready  to  start. 


',']2 


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